Blind Carbon Copy
by colossally abundant numbers
Summary: America is sent into a world where the American Revolution failed after Japan's new teleportation machine goes awry.  US/UK, Germany/France
1. failed invention : our world

**blind carbon copy**

**Summary:** In which Japan's new teleportation machine goes awry, and an America from a world where his Revolution was disastrous comes to visit. There is a high chance this'll be AU!US/AU!Canada and our!US/our!UK. Some Germany/France on the side, what with them being attached at the hip nowadays

**Warnings:** Weaves back and forth between humor and angst. Random current events will be incorporated.

* * *

Japan was having a very intense invention session again. Just three weeks ago he had created a rather realistic teenage dating sim (he had perfected a mathematical model of this form of romance _— _it was a sinusoidal curve, alternating between breaking up and making up every other week, kind of like England and America, he supposed), and this week he was working on a teleportation engine. In fact, he was so very into it that he felt a bout of that old isolationism wash over him, he had to stay at home, couldn't face the world in this state —

Still, Japan had never missed a World Conference, even through monstrous, decade-long colds (it was an extremely evolved form of the virus, he had been told, one that Russia had accused America of creating with his overuse of anti-bacterial soap and then spreading with his unhygenic eating habits) and weary, weary warfare. Could he bear to part with his carefully built reputation? Japan sighed. He had to go, even if this particular meeting was in the not-so-gentle recesses of Antarctica.

Though...that wouldn't stop him from bringing his new-fangled apparatus along for company, would it? Perhaps, he hums quietly to himself, he can convince America to buy it after playing with his splendid prototype (not that, of course, it was his intention to drive America into ever-increasing debt, no, he had no evil intentions here, and America really needed to learn to control himself when it came down to buying what he didn't need).

Japan arrives an hour early, apparatus in hand, expecting to be the first one there. The meeting is in an unclaimed part of Antarctica (Japan supposes this is for the purpose of neutrality, even though some seven nations have been squabbling over land claims there as well), and regrets his early arrival as soon as a mild blizzard (if they can ever be called this) blows at his face. He does manage to step into the meeting room (though his footing is slightly unsteady), and gapes (though had he had an audience, they would've deemed it nothing more than a slight quirk of the lips) at what he sees.

America, of all people, is early.

And England is with him, though this latter point is not as surprising.

Japan doesn't fully remember what happened next, though he recalled another gush of wind causing the slightly ajar door behind him (how had he forgotten to slam it shut?) to ram into him. He recalls falling, a not-so-mild blizzard blowing through the gaping hole behind him, the apparatus in his hand slipping, further falling, loud cracks, a disjointed cry, and a high-pitched scream (was this last one himself, America, or England?).

When the three of them finally regained their senses, they endeavored to fix the door and huddled behind it like a pack of rats, waiting for the meeting to begin. Japan had grabbed his apparatus tightly and was refusing to let go. They were all much too cold to talk, and instead stayed close to each other, trying to conserve their warmth, each cursing whatever had caused them to come early. America blamed England and his need to draw stupid stick-figure pictures on the wall at an ungodly hour. England blamed France, who had made a horrible bet with him about drawing proportionate stick figures, and yet had not bothered showing up. Japan blamed himself for not having ramped up his isolationism to full speed.

Several mathematicians and foreign policy analysts would later write a paper called "A Geometric View of Foreign Policy", visualizing this meeting as a ray of blame (America → England → France → ?), plus a dot on a parallel plane (Japan).

* * *

The meeting finally began precisely an hour later, when a good majority of the motley group of nations had settled down. America, as had been the case for a while, was asked to present first. And, as usual, he did not look prepared.

Germany was at the front of the room, trying in vain to fix the wayward microphone. "America," he grumbled, fumbling with the despicable piece of Antarctican technology, "are you going to come up here or not?"

America looked dazed, and continued to fidget in his seat. "You-you want me to start? Shouldn't that be Engl...I mean, I haven't prepared anything. Why aren't asking England instead?"

Germany glanced at America. The nation looked distinctly uncomfortable _— _and Germany couldn't help but notice the subtle, confused looks he was shooting England. Had their sexual tension moved on to Stage Two: Communication by Eye Movement? It was certainly likely, because _Frankreich _had often complained to him that England and America had the romantic capabilities of a pair of teenagers. France's spying had revealed fairly regular sex mixed in with a dry spell during the Vietnam War, and sexual tension during nearly every other large conflict America got Britain involved in. _Thus_, France had proclaimed with an amused grin, _their current relationship status is likely that of almost-post-war sexual tension._

Germany chanced a glance at France —

France waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

— and immediately regretted it. He didn't have time to be wondering about _petty_ gossip! He had a set of questions for America prepared — and he would be damned if the nation didn't answer every one of them truthfully.

Then Germany saw the catalyst — England was turning to give America a withering glare! He winced, mentally steeling himself for yet another meeting room verbal brawl.

"It's not as if your preparations give way to anything meaningful," England quipped, "And weren't you the one who suggested 'just winging it' as a meeting essential?"

America looked backed at the other nation, confused. "I don't...I don't remember saying anything like that."

England shot him a look of frustration. "Because you clearly have some undiagnosed form of long-term memory loss!"

Germany sighed, eyeing America warily, waiting for his reaction, which was sure to be far from peaceful and was sure to set off a chain reaction that involved England, _Frankreich_ (how he always got involved no one knew), and America duking it out in the middle of the (currently freezing) meeting room.

To his surprise, however, none came. Instead, America just turned away, huffing lightly in response.

_Crisis averted!_

* * *

There were some days when America just did not _get_ England. The Empire may not have been particularly nice over the years (especially after that failed revolution of his two centuries ago), but America had rarely seen him as irate as he was today.

Did England really have to insult him at every turn? Usually England would only show such irritation when dealing with France (though America had a feeling that this was far from genuine) or Russia (which was definitely genuine, especially given their ongoing Second Great Game).

Secondly, he'd been asked to _present_ at a meeting. Colonies didn't usually do this, did they? They weren't exactly nations, so England was supposed to handle his foreign policy and his defense. So why did England act as if he expected America to come up with something, or "wing it", as the Englishman had oh-so-eloquently put it? America closed his eyes, willing himself to recall something, perhaps some forgotten meeting he'd had with England where he'd been informed that he was expected to do more than just slink around in the background with the other British colonies?

His reverie was broken with another shout from Germany (who sounded very, very annoyed) —"America! Will you please start presenting? Stop wasting our time and _— _my god _— _we all need to have a serious talk about your latest stimulus package. Have you even thought about the repercussions or were you just too busy being clueless?"

"Indeed," China cut in, "you did not even have the decency to inform us that you would be weakening your currency. If you could stop being so selfish for once and see that anything you do inevitably affects the rest of us — "

"Yeah," South Africa snapped, "all this talk about helping the developing countries and turns out you don't give a shit after all."

America sighed. His legs were moving against his will, forcing him to stand, forcing him to walk to the podium...The knot in his stomach was growing — he truly had no idea what he was doing, and he was feeling rather wilted under the glares of the other members of the room. And Germany had mentioned something about a recession...What the hell were the others talking about again — weakening his currency? Since when had he had _any_ control over the pound? And the goddamn stimulus package was _England's _doing, not his! He could still remember —

_"A bailout? So now you're communist too?" America had asked England with a bitter laugh. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, knew it the moment he'd let the words fly from his lips, but the drink in his blood had made him bold, careless. England had been taking money from his people for a long time, but today..._

_England had been drinking too, downing some surprisingly strong bottle of beer, and the words made the nation rise, unsteady. There was a gleam in his eyes, the sort of gleam a wrongly accused madman might possess, wild, bitter, and cold. _

_(Who will survive? Who will survive? May the last man stand, tall and proud!)_

_"You think I'm a goddamn commie? After all I've done for you-you useless bastard — " England had snarled, voice low and slurred, legs swaying as he stood._

_"What?" America protested, fighting to keep the years and years of rage and bitterness and humiliation down, fighting against the sway of that horrible drink between his fingers. Normally, he would think things over before speaking, but today, today — "Fuck you, England," he screamed, "I'm the one keeping you afloat anyway, with my taxes and your goddamn government monopoly on half my trades and you come here and call me useless? You wouldn't even have the bomb if it weren't for me!"_

_"You ungrateful little shit — "_

_The bottle in England's hands suddenly came crashing down on the side of the table, and England's eyes became frighteningly blank. The glass shards fell the floor, joining the spilled alcohol and pent-up anger. They both stood there, watching as the wood, glass and alcohol mingled on the ruined kitchen floor._

_"After all I've done to keep Russia at bay," England growled, eyes betraying an untameable fury, "After all the sacrifices I made, the blows I took in your place, this is how you repay me?"_

_America, shaken at the intricate weave of glass and liquid at his feet, whispered, "I'm repaying you, aren't I, England? You just come here and take whatever you damn well please and I give it—"_

_"Are you implying I don't deserve it?" England sneered, "That you — "_

_"Yes," America spat out, earlier fear forgotten, "just take it, take it all, England! Take all of my fucking money and give it to those rich bankers in your goddamn capital. See how the rest of your nation likes it, rolling around like a bunch of filthy communist pigs in my money!"_

_"What the bloody fuck did you call me?" America could hear the animalistic growl in England's throat, mixing in with the swirl of beer and a horrifying addiction to gambling. He opened his mouth to reply __—_

___— _when, without warning, England swung, bottle still in hand, horror and self-disgust and paranoia churning in his mind like a potent chemical beast. A split second after, America fell forward, his blood joining the horrible, horrible concoction on the floor, his hands clawing desperately at the remnants of a glass piece embedded in his midsection. 

_He'd thought he was going to die, and that he'd only have a madman for company, a madman to bury him, a madman to scatter his ashes, to suffocate him..._

_(But I'm the last one standing! Don't you see? Don't you see?)_

* * *

_When Canada found them, England was kneeling on the floor next to America, trying to bandage his colony with unsteady, desperate hands._

_Canada took in the scene around them with slow horror, the broken bottle, the spilled beer, blood, and tears. He had screamed then, and it was the first time he'd lost his composure in decades. Canada knew the perpetrator immediately._

_"Get out," he breathed hoarsely, glaring at England. "Get out, get out, get out!" He repeated himself several more times, refusing to take his eyes off England's face, not caring that England had been crying, or that the bandages were still half done, or that America might bleed more if England lifted his hand, or that he didn't have the authority to tell England to leave __— _he'd let things slide before, but now...

_On the fifteenth repetition, England rose, legs still tingling from being cramped on the ground, and teetered unsteadily to the door. There were no lingering words of comfort._

_Canada was only glad he hadn't apologized._

* * *

_"Canada..."_

_"Don't talk," Canada whispered, "You really should rest."_

_"I-I don't care," America bit back, clearing his throat. Then, after a moment's silence, "Is it—do you think it's crazy?"_

_"What's crazy?" Canada asked, pausing to stare at America._

_"That I don't...that I can't feel anything right now." America mumbled. Then he heaved forward, suddenly burst into a coughing fit, spraying large red droplets all over Canada's sleeve. "I just — I don't even feel angry. Just nothing, nothing at all. I thought it'd never be like this, dispassionate, cold, I mean, I was always the one with my emotions blaring everywhere, right? And now..." America dabbed fruitlessly at the red dots lining Canada's jacket, failing to get rid of them, only succeeding in smearing concentric circular messes across the cotton cloth. "Oh god, Matthew, your jacket..."_

_"It's just a jacket," Canada said, pulling the offending article off. Then he pulled his brother closer, still fumbling with the bandages. Damn bandages._

_There was a silence, until America, ever the persistent one, pointed out, "You haven't answered my question."_

_Canada stopped wrapping for a moment and quipped, "You're always crazy, Alfred." He grinned goofily, trying to lighten the mood._

_America laughed then, but it was cut short by another coughing fit. "That's — " cough " — a lie of omission — " cough " — Matthew. We're both utterly nuts, but it's a testament to our greatness!"_

_Canada laughed too, feeling genuine for once in his life._

_(And they held each other tightly, like a pair of lifeboats on a lifeless sea, floating, floating...)_

"_America!_" Germany's irritation was clearly growing with time. "Are you going to talk or just stand there? We expect some explanations about your this stimulus package of yours! We mean no disrespect, but it is, frankly, clueless and selfish." America's eyes snapped forward back to the audience, shocked that he had entertained a flight of nostalgia in the middle of a meeting. This was horrible timing.

"Um, well, I guess we can talk about the recession" — America paused, trying to think of something reasonable to say — and why did Germany have to call it his recession anyway? He wasn't England, and his economy wasn't as affected as the other European countries were, and he sure as hell was not in the mood to talk about one of England's goddamn stimulus packages _— _"...if it's my economy you're worried about, it's actually not doing so badly. We've just recently found a gold belt and it's — "

"A gold belt!" England cut in incredulously, "What are you trying to relive, America? The 1850's and that damn gold rush in your West?"

He'd had a gold rush before? And in the 1850's, no less? "What are you talking about, England?" America asked, slightly panicked, "I've never had a gold rush before."

England glared. "You can stop your sarcasm right there, you damn prat! Take this meeting seriously for once, and stop mocking us with your false promises and flowery rhetoric."

England wanted America to fix a recession that wasn't even really his? Had the Empire gone absolutely crazy?

"But I just told you," America began slowly, despairing at being put on the spot, "I don't have a cold, and I can't fix a problem that's not mine. And, and—" here America gestured wildly at England, slightly flustered, "—I'm not supposed to handle this. I don't understand why you...you would randomly bring me into the middle of a meeting and expect me to make a speech about _your_ economy."

"What?" England asked, biting back his surprise when he saw America wince at the volume, "You're supposed to make a speech about _your_ economy! Who the hell asked you to make one about mine?"

America gripped the podium, willing himself to stay calm and not back away. It wouldn't do any good to yell back at England. America had long since decided it was easier to just let things slide, as it wasn't all too often England visited and could make a fuss anyway. The Empire was usually off at Russia's house, stirring up a shitstorm and bringing the two superpowers (and their respective colonies) ever closer to "mutually assured destruction".

And even if America didn't like England's presence in his life, he was really the lesser of two evils, right? He was not at all keen on being a Russian colony—Lithuania had managed to drill that into his head during the secret meetings they'd held in Alert, Nunavut. America had enjoyed Lithuania's company, and had gone out of his way to talk to the other nation, entirely against England's wishes. He had complained (almost too dramatically) to his brother that England would accuse him of being a "damn Commie" again, and insisted that he just didn't have the energy to deal with the sheer paranoia anymore.

Canada was sympathetic and offered to play host for them in Alert, Nunavut, a remote (and extremely cold) Canadian town. America later returned the favor when he found out that Canada was friends with Ukraine, another poor soul behind the Iron Curtain. America offered to host them in New York City, where the pair had mingled and faded into the crowds, undetected. Damn was Canada good at disappearing.

America glanced around the room warily. He counted five nations glaring at him, four sleeping, and a large horde of with a skeptical look in their eyes. The ones awake were, to his disconcertion, paying _rapt_ attention to him.

He glanced at Canada, hoping to elicit some answers, but the look his brother gave back to him held none. _What the hell was going on?_

"Alright, look, this...speech is about _my_ economy, and I said I'm doing fine, which I am. We've got 5% growth in all job sectors and though unemployment is still slightly higher than the last few years, we haven't really been affected that much." America went on, trying to predict his own future, and throwing in a few statistics he'd remembered about his economy for good measure.

"America," China cut in right after America had spouted off a series of numbers on trade between himself and Canada, "you are avoiding our question."

"Wha _— _um, what was it again?" America looked sheepish—he certainly hadn't meant to avoid anything.

"We want _you_ to explain your reasoning behind your Federal Reserve's latest fiasco—a ridiculous idea to create 600 billion out of thin air!" Germany shouted, addled.

America obviously _knew_, and was probably protracting things for kicks and giggles. Germany knew that mocking America's naivete was an international pastime, but he had a feeling that the nation was more often selfish than truly naive. And this stimulus plan nailed it—it was obvious that America and _only_ America would benefit, the rest of the world be damned.

Germany had a list of goals coming into this meeting _— _he'd met with several other nations in Berlin a few nights before, and they'd agreed on one goal for America's time at the podium _— _they would push the point with the nation _until_ he acknowledged the selfishness of his domestic policy, and then work on wrangling some new deal out of him at the end of it all. If America thought he could just walk around the problem by pretending to be uninformed...

"Um, what?" America stared back at them, confused. "I've done nothing of the sort!" And just what the hell was this Federal Reserve anyway? Had England created yet another useless bureaucracy to govern him and failed to inform him? He glanced at England (who was discreetly shuffling his papers around, pointedly ignoring the shouting in the room altogether), hoping for an explanation.

"Don't be so dense, America!" China grumbled, "You knew perfectly well what a falling dollar would mean for the rest of us!"

_What in the world is a dollar?_ America wanted to ask, but didn't.

"Yes," England cut in, suddenly looking up from his listless paper-shuffling, "it would mean that you can no longer push your cheap products on him, right, China?"

China glared, Germany sighed, and France grinned. "Trust _Angleterre_ to defend his precious _Etats-Unis_..."

"You idiot!" England snapped. He was about to stand up in preparation of a shouting match with France when he saw Germany place a hand on France's shoulder.

"_Frankreich_...let's try to get through this meeting without the two of you shouting at each other on top of the table, please?" Which was, sadly, what had happened at the last meeting. It was even worse when France had wrapped his arms around Germany's waist, dragging him straight into the middle of their food fight, causing Germany to get hit in the head by a barrage of burnt scones and England's fist. The worst part was that the scones had hurt more than the fist.

Luckily, France looked acquiescent this time (_Frankreich_ was considerate like that, Germany thought, smiling to himself), and nodded. "Let's skip the argument today, _Angleterre—_"

"Who said I would listen to your stupidity? Jumping to conclusions like that _— _I was merely making an observation, and a very accurate one at that if I do say so mysel—"

Germany closed his eyes, kneading his temples in frustration. As soon as England spoke, France had erupted from his arms, jabbing accusatory fingers in England's face _— _could they go a _single_ meeting without there being a small scale war? And to think that the two were actually considering cooperating militarily...

* * *

On the other side of the podium, America was very, very relieved. He was running low on more statistics to toss in, and, not wanting to make things up in front of an international audience, he had taken the France-England-induced chaos to make a hasty exit. He grabbed the chair closest to Canada, and planted himself solidly between his brother and Cameroon.

"Canada," he whispered, "what the hell is going on?"

"What do you mean?" Canada asked, "France and England are at it again, and Germany's trying to step in _— _unsuccessfully because England thinks he's too biased to serve as a mediator. Pretty damn typical, don't you think? Well, other than the fact that we're in Antarctica, of course..."

"No, no _— _what was Germany talking about? Why is everyone acting like I should...I should be fixing this recession? And—"

"Well, you're in a recession that occurred because of your mishandling of finances and it's affecting the world. Everyone's trying to fix things, why wouldn't they expect you to help?"

"I'm doing fine!" America insisted, "Look, why the hell are we sitting at the nations table anyway? And why did England not tell me I was presenting today, and first too?"

Canada stared at him in confusion. "Why would England have to inform you that you're presenting? I know you're not that clueless, Alfred, you present at every single meeting, and you almost always present first."

"What? I've never—I've never done this before!" America sounded frantic, and Canada wondered if this was his brother's idea of a joke. Perhaps he could humor him.

"Of course, you've never presented before, Alfred," he remarked dryly, "I was just joking, you know, about the last two hundred years and counting. England clearly had to baby you through the years, informing you every time he—"

"Damnit, Matt, that's not funny. Think about the situation we're in _— _why would England suddenly move us here when we clearly don't belong—"

"Clearly don't belong? America, you're not making any sense." Now Canada really did look worried, and he regarded his brother anxiously. He was about to grab his brother and tell him to take a breather in a warmer, less humid room when a loud voice cut through the air, putting an end to argument at the other end of the room.

"If you're all quite finished, it's my turn to present now." Australia was standing at the podium, shooting France and England an annoyed look.

"Right," Germany agreed, half glad that France and England would finally stop arguing, and half peeved that he hadn't had the opportunity to interrogate America further. "Let's let Australia have the stage."

Australia? America made a face. Was this British Colony Appreciation Day or something? First him, and now Australia? Would they have Canada up next after the Aussie had finished? (Then again, they were all sitting down at the nations' table, weren't they? Not off in the corner, where they'd usually been. And Canada thought it was a typical meeting!)

Part way through Australia's speech, America discovered an assortment of papers stuffed in his pants pocket. He pulled them out, listening to Australia with half a ear. Who had written these notes? Was he supposed to have used them at some point during his speech? They looked like his own handwriting, and—

_The Fed's $600 Billion Statement, Translated Into Plain English_

_The Federal Reserve is about to create $600 billion out of thin air. It's a huge, experimental stimulus program that will affect stock markets and government policies around the world._

There was a messy line scrawled under "affect stock markets and government policies around the world" that looked like it was his own doing. Underneath "the world" were three more lines, each thicker than the last. When had he read this? How was it that he just could not remember? Clearly this 'affecting the world' problem was why Germany and China and everyone else had looked so angry, but he couldn't remember ever doing this, or that a mere colony's policy change could affect the _world—_

"America." It was Canada again, and he looked even more worried than before. "You should get some air, take a break from the meeting or something. I can lend you the notes on Australia's speech."

"Forget it." _England?_

America almost jumped in paranoia _— _what was _England_ doing here? When had he moved over to Canada's side of the table? _Damn_.

"Forget it," England repeated himself, "it's freezing outside, America, the damn blizzard never stopped since morning."

"Um, right. I'll just _— _I'll just step out into the hall for a short while then," America finished hastiliy, "Come with me, Matt?" He had to talk to Canada without England there...

Canada glanced at England hesitantly. It was obvious that England wanted something from America (private time in a closet, perhaps?), or else he wouldn't have bothered leaving his seat and traveling half-way across the meeting room. It didn't seem unreasonable to give him the chance, did it? "I have to take notes, Alfred—"

"Let him take his notes, I'll come with you," England took the opportunity immediately, "Just as long as you have the decency to not heave on me while we're in the hallway."

"Of course," Canada was looking at the two of them skeptically. "The two of you will return from your time in some stuffy broom closet and then steal my notes. How typical."

England let out an undignified squawk. "I'll have you know that I've no intentions of doing anything of the sort, especially not—"

"Sure, sure," Canada remarked drolly, waving at the two of them with good cheer, and chuckling lightly at England's permascowl.

Such a typical meeting.

* * *

They walked into the hallway, where the ventilation was slightly, ever-so-slightly better. America remained nervous _— _he had _not_ wanted to talk to England at all. Why couldn't Canada see that? How could taking notes be so goddamn important at a time like this? It wasn't like they really needed to know what Australia was saying _— _England would inform them if something was truly important.

England broke the awkward silence they were beginning to descend into. "Have you really found another gold belt?" At least this statement was innocuous enough, America thought.

"Uh, yeah," he grumbled, not bothering to meet England's gaze. The Empire would probably have wanted to be the first to know about his colony finding gold, but America just hadn't had the time to say anything before he was suddenly pulled into the meeting room. "I was going to tell you, you know, but your line was always busy. Were you talking with Russia again?"

"Why would I talk with Russia?" England asked, incredulous.

America shot him a confused look, shrugged, and the two fell into another awkward silence.

America failed to notice the anxious look on England's face (mainly because he was avoiding eye contact altogether), and went back to fumbling with the crumpled paperwork he'd retrieved from his pocket. For lack of anything better to fend off his anxiety with, he read the first line on the second page:

_"Bank Bailout and Stimulus: Did they help or hurt?"_

England's damned bailout again—but why was it copied in his handwriting? He hadn't remembered writing a pip on the damn bailouts. Sure, his trade lagged and his taxes increased when England's economy lagged, but he was allowed to trade with the other British colonies too, and Canada was a very valuable trading partner. The two of them were practically self-sustaining nowadays, so it made no difference that England's housing bubble had burst, or that his banks were engaging in shady behavior, or that the rest of Western Europe was under extreme duress due to England's stupidity, or that England no longer shat gold, or—

Something was wrong. He had been asleep before he'd somehow appeared in the Conference room. He'd guessed that England had dragged him here and that he was here because the British Empire felt the need to preen his plumage in front of Russia, which was familiar territory.

In fact, for the past decade or so, all of England's colonies had been "cordially invited" to attend the World Conferences. America knew perfectly well that this "cordial" invitation was no more than a veiled threat _— _they had better attend or _else_. And being not-nations, they had little to do at the Conference, so they would hang out awkwardly in the background, trying to make small talk.

Russia had taken to doing the same thing _— _bringing all the Eastern Bloc states along (they were here today, again, weren't they?). He and Canada would use the time to hang out with Lithuania and Ukraine, and wait for the nations to finish their jabbering.

This, of course, was what troubled him the most _— _why were they being asked to present and given no heads-up? Was England trying to occupy their time because he was _suspicious_ of their behavior during the meeting? Did England _know_? America closed his eyes. He didn't want to imagine what would happen if England found out that he and Canada really enjoyed Lithuania and Ukraine's company, and had met with them multiple times behind his back. Just what would he say to his North American colonies hanging out with a bunch of "filthy communists"?

America had seen the destruction the two nations were capable of wielding on his own land, with his own two eyes. He _—_

_The stage was just another European war (so typical, so, so typical), and England had made a trip to visit him, despite the Blitz raining down on London. He'd invited England outside, and they'd sat side-by-side on a dusty bus stop bench. England was smiling grimly beside him, pointing to the desert scenery around him and nodding, agenda clear as day. "It's perfect."_

_"What's perfect?" America had asked._

_"This land, your land. There's no one living here, short of desert shrubs and reptiles, right? We can test our weapon here, America, and then we will be untouchable." England almost looked serene then, as if this new weapon was the panacea to all of his troubles, and America found himself unable to refuse. They would be untouchable, untouchable..._

_They'd merged their scientists then, in various camps across his land. And they'd worked, letting the mad rush of pressure and fear and pure scientific ingenuity push them forward. Some years later he'd see it __— _feel it _— _as the bomb ripped across his land, driving dirt madly about, clouding his vision with a dust column rising boldly above the ground, wrestling with the life forms in its path, ashes and debris and human toil all intertwined... 

_When the spectacle was over and he could see England's face again, he saw it, and was horrified. _

_England was smiling __— _a genuine smile. 

_Later, he'd felt something wet and sticky crawling on his arm, accompanied by a sharp, biting pain. He clawed at the sudden, jagged wound developing on his left arm, letting out a silent cry._

_A genuine smile._

_(There were people there, people who'd been harmed, people...And no one would hear, no one would care.)_

_He'd complained to England some years after about the tests, bringing up the neighboring residents, the hundreds affected by the fallout who hadn't known, even showing England his own scar. England had made a series of promises, saying he would bring up the problem with his leaders, saying he would get them to devote a part of their budget to nuclear exposure compensation, saying __—_

_(But they were so empty, so — )_

_America had let it go, again, this time at Canada's urging. ("It's a war, America. These things happen. You don't really want to be Russia's colony, do you?" "No, I don't, but—")_

_And well, they were untouchable, for a while, at least. Until Russia got the bomb too, and America was almost glad, in a twisted sort of way, when he saw matching scars on Kazakhstan's arms. So that was where Russia was doing his testing, Kazakhstan._

_(Never on their own land, of course not. He might as well have been a Russian colony—)_

_He and Kazakhstan had compared scars silently at the next World Conference, eyeing each other knowingly, and America didn't know what to feel anymore. He had an urge to arrange another meeting with Lithuania._

"America! Were you even listening to me?" He looked up, shocked _— _it was England again, this time sounding slightly exasperated.

"Oh, sorry," he turned to face England, belatedly realizing that the nation had been talking for a while now, "What were you talking about?"

"Did you hear _anything_ I said in the past ten minutes?" England grumbled, frustrated. Since when had America started zoning out _all_ the time? Then again, England himself had been too nervous to actually notice, so...

"Um, I wasn't really paying attention...sorry. Mind repeating it again?"

England looked dismayed, but said, "Look, I know you won't like this, but...you know I'm running out of money, right? I mean we all are, but, well..."

England started fiddling with his tie.

"Oh, right. Another bailout?" America tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, tried to not remember the last time he'd mocked England for this, tried, tried _—_

"My people would not respond well to _more_. You saw how France's rioted over a simple change in their retirement _— _not that my people are anything like the French, but still _— _this is about saving. I need to save on my military budget, so I was thinking of...well, of...hedging my bets on a military partnership with...France." England looked embarrassed and somewhat uncomfortable _— _it was _France_, first and foremost, something he might never live down, and _—_

"Whoa, really?" America shot England an incredulous look, "Weren't you two just screaming bloody murder at each other a few moments ago?"

England felt relieved _— _America hadn't look offended, and he hadn't mentioned betrayal or intelligence leakage or any of the political travesties of their modern world. England didn't _want_ to lose America _— _he loved him, but it was just that necessity dictated little choice in dire times. His hands were tied, surely America could understand _that_...surely...

"No, no, America, please don't misunderstand _— _I am most certainly _not_ doing this out of any love for France! He's still his disgusting, perverted self. I just..." he trailed off, sounding unsure.

America looked confused, but gave England an encouraging nod.

"I just...I don't have a choice, alright? I'm only agreeing out of financial necessity. Look, I know you're concerned about the intelligence you shared with me over the years, but you needn't worry _— _that bastard won't have access to any of your data, I swear!" England was rambling, and his eyes no longer seemed to be focused on America.

"Wait," America began, confused (since when had the Empire become so anxious?), "I —"

"Besides, you get along a lot better with France nowadays, right? I'm sure this will all work out fine—I mean, even on a good day I wouldn't want to _look_ at that bastard across the Channel, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so _— _well, I _— _" England looked worriedly at America, hoping that the nation in front of him would get that a simple military partnership did _not _mean that he was in bed with France. (Besides, that place was already taken by Germany, and England was _not_ interested in fighting some deranged version of the Trojan War over _France_). Theirs was a purely political relationship _— _a symbiosis of sorts.

He waited, glancing nervously at America, hoping the nation would at least support the plan, that everything would go smoothly, that he could salvage his damn free-falling budget _—_

_— _or that Alfred would _say_ something to break the horribly awkward silence!

"Um," America began hesitantly, "that's...good, I suppose. As long as you're saving money, I'm sure everything...will...uh, work out.."

America really didn't know what to say. Why was England telling him all of this anyway? It didn't have anything to do with him, unless England was trying to apologize for that last time by explaining his latest strategy to handle his debt... Was England asking him for _support _then? But why the hell would the British Empire give a damn if one of his upstart colonies supported him in some plan involving a foreign nation? He could _make_ them support him, he didn't need to _ask_.

"Oh, so you're alright with this then?" England felt relieved _— _and America hadn't even mocked him about France yet! This was much easier than he'd expected. "We can hash out the details later, I'm sure, whenever you find time to come around." He patted America on the back, and grinned shamelessly. "Now that that's over with, let's fulfill Canada's prophecy, shall we?"

"What?" America asked lamely, "Canada's, um, prophecy?" What the hell had Canada been talking about earlier — something about stealing his notes...and a broom closet?

England grinned, placing his hands deftly around America's shoulders. He leaned in, cheeks flushed from the Antarctican wind —

* * *

**brief historical/current events (and other) notes:**

**[** online . wsj . com / article / . html - France+UK military cooperation. From the first article: "The two countries are being thrown together not out of love, but rather out of financial necessity." :D number10 . gov . uk / news / statements-and-articles / 2010 / 11 / uk%E2%80%93france-summit-2010-declaration-on-defence-and-security-co-operation-56519 **]**

**[ **www . npr . org / blogs / money / 2010 / 11 / 03 / 131043062 / federal-reserve - the Fed's 600 billion strategy, which is drawing heat from many countries: www . bbc . co . uk / news / business-11697483 **]**

**[** Kazakhstan (specifically the Semipalatinsk Test Site) was the primary location of Soviet nuclear testing. The UN estimates that one million people were exposed to radiation near the site. **]**

**[** The UK set 21 out of their 45 tests in Australia, and the rest were in the U.S. as a part of the US-UK Mutual Defence Agreement. This allowed the UK to perform underground tests in Nevada, and let the two countries share large amounts of classified information. The UK apparently had very few nuclear tests compared to the US, France, and the USSR because they depended heavily on American nuclear testing. (The Special Relationship reporting for duty!) **]**

**[** The British government also has no formal compensation program for nuclear testing victims, and many Christmas Island residents want to file a lawsuit for damages. **]**


	2. russia's lair : alternate universe

**Notes: **I was actually going to post the sequel to the AU!America in our world, but I'd also written our!America in the AU world, and this one was a lot easier to edit, so I'm posting it first instead. The other part should be up soon though.

* * *

Antarctica was absolute shit. America had a speech to give in half an hour, and his notes were _nowhere_ to be found. All he'd remembered was something sharp digging into his left kneecap—several screams—and here he was again, in the middle of the meeting room, except no England or Japan in sight. _Damnit all!_

America looked around the room, hoping for a clue or two—there _was_ an odd machine on the floor, probably Japan's. It looked quite broken, and America felt a twinge of sympathy for Japan. He scooped up Japan's broken apparatus, examining the LCD screen with curiosity. Perhaps the nation would still want it back, splinters and all. For the moment it wasn't of much use to him, as it gave no clue to the two nations' whereabouts, so he lobbed the mess of wires into his pocket. Seeing that there were no clues left, America sighed. He'd have no choice but to brave the Antarctican cold and search for them—just how far had that sudden gust of wind blown them?

He started his trek towards the door, mentally preparing himself for the cold. _Think Alaska, think..._

The door snapped opened before he could get to it.

"What are you doing in here, _Amerika_?"

"Russia?" America stared in surprise. "Wow—hey, have you seen England or Japan?"

"No, I have not seen them. You did not answer my question, _Amerika._"

"Your question? Why the hell wouldn't I be here, Russia?" America shook his head, strong-arming his way past Russia at the door, giving it a light shove. He winced at the sudden onslaught of cold. Why did they have to choose fucking _Antarctica_? It was purely unfair, the advantage they gave to all the nations used to freezing their asses off...As Russia followed him outside, America cast Russia a few jealous glances. Damn Russia and his affinity to cold.

Then, out of his peripheral vision, he saw someone familiar—"England!" So he _hadn't _gotten blasted all that far after all!

"America." England's brows were furrowed, as he fixed America with a look of mild annoyance. "What did I say about arriving before me?"

America was about to answer when he realized that England wasn't really looking at him—he was _glaring_ at Russia. What was up with that? "What do you mean arrive before you? You dragged me here earlier than ever because you wanted to draw some shit on the blackboard. Don't start blaming me when we arrived at the same time!"

Russia's look was grave. "Lying is useless, _Amerika_. Explain to _Аngliya_ why you were in there." He pointed to the building they'd just exited.

"Of course I would be in there—"

"You were in _there_, Alfred? What the _hell_ were you doing in there? Do you just exist to fucking piss me off? I _told_ you it was dangerous to come early, and you come, I _told_ you not to go anywhere near this building, and you go, I—"

America made a face. "Oh for fuck's sake, since when have you said any of this? You're always telling me to not be late, then I come early and you complain about my being early. Goddamnit England, you don't see me complaining about your fucked up attitude, do you? So what fucking right do you have—"

Then, without warning, England had seized him by the collar and slammed him into the building wall. America barely had time to react—just when England grown so _strong_?

"...what the hell, England?" he mumbled, more shocked and confused than angry.

"What right do _I_ have? You know what fucking right I have?—I'm keeping you from getting destroyed and killed, from being ruled over by that fucking Ruski—is that what you want?"

"Um, what? Since when have you protected me from Russia—"

England let go of his shirt and slapped him.

"What the hell?" America yelled, rubbing at his cheek, shock over and genuine anger resurfacing. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you, England?"

England only shot him a dark glare in response. "I expect a little more respect."

"Not this again—goddamnit England! I just told you three weeks ago that I respect you just fine—that whatever Canada said _wasn't _true! That's not what the rest of the world thinks of you as—I thought you agreed with me!"

"This has nothing to do with Canada, so don't you bring your brother into this—"

"Nothing to do with him now? You were the one who got all riled up when he called you my lapdog—"

"What did you just say?" There was a dangerous edge to England's voice that America missed.

"Look, he was obviously wrong and no one—"

"Canada said this?"

"Well, obviously! You were the one who told me he said this!"

England narrowed his eyes. "I'll have to speak to him about this."

"I thought you already spoke to him? Wasn't that what started this whole thing in the first place?" America sighed. England could over-dramatize _everything_ when he put his mind to it.

"The two of you—a pair of useless brats!" England grumbled, "I don't know whatever made me choose to pick the two of you up—and to think you now go around _insulting_ me as if I haven't done enough for you two—"

"_Angliya,_" Russia cut in, looking gravely serious, "you have plenty of time to whine about your colonies later. We have more pressing matters to contend with. Your colony entered that room without clearance—I say that he should be brought forth for an international—"

"There will be no such thing, Russia! I will handle this internally," England growled, and grabbed America's arm. If Russia thought he could wreak havoc in _British_ lands, he had something else coming to him.

"Wait—" America began, "—'colony'? I'm nobody's—"

Russia, ignoring America's protests entirely, countered, "And why should you be allowed to handle this internally, _Angliya_? We do not know what _Amerika_ was doing in there—perhaps he was planting spying devices, perhaps he was installing a bomb, and perhaps you put him up to this. How can I trust _you_?"

"Well, you simply have to—because I am most certainly _not_ allowing you to intervene with my affairs!"

"Your affairs?" Russia's lips curled into a sneer, disbelieving. "The moment he stepped into that building, it was no longer your affairs. If you insist on not having a trial for him, perhaps we should have one for _you_ instead? It is only fair—"

"He merely entered a room—"

"One which he should not have entered,_ Angliya—_"

"Hence why _I_ will handle it internally—"

"Can you get it through your thick skull, you_ pig_?" Russia growled, frustration rising. "I do not trust you, and I will not allow this to pass. Expect it to be brought up in the meeting in an hour. Bring _Amerika_ with you."

"I see no reason to listen to a _communist bastard_," England snarled.

Russia looked serenely at England, mouth morphing into a wayward grin. "Or perhaps there's another reason for America to be in there, hm? Perhaps he hates your suffocating presence so much that he'd rather spend his time in _our_ meeting area than in your company? A perfectly reasonable choice, don't you think?"

England slammed his fist into Russia's cheek before the nation could go further. "What the fuck would you know, Russia?"

America's protest of "Wait, guys—" was left unheard as the two prepared to exchange blows.

Russia's eyes narrowed, and he brought his pipe up in the air, swinging wildly for England's head. England lifted his elbow up while dodging the pipe's trajectory, and aimed to nail Russia's gut. The other nation danced deftly aside, managing to wrap an arm in a stranglehold around England's neck.

"Fuck—" England wheezed, and clamped his teeth down on Russia's arm.

Russia let out a loud grunt, pulling backwards roughly in pain. He recovered quickly, however, and swung for England's face—and this time he didn't miss. His pipe connected solidly with England's cheek, and England found himself clutching his face in pain. "Damn you, Russia—" England let out a low, guttural sound and readied his fist for a return swing, tunnelling it forward to Russia's face, only to realize—

—_Alfred_ had stepped into the fray? He had no time to stop himself though, and his fist connected solidly with America's shoulder.

"Alfred!" England yelled, suddenly worried that he might've dislocated something. Then he glared at Russia—the _bastard_ was smirking—he must've planned this, dodged aside just as Alfred had stepped in front—_the fucking Communist—_

To the shock of both nations, America looked mostly unaffected. Instead, there was a determined look in his eye as he lifted his elbow towards Russia's face and slammed it into the nation's nose with a loud crack. Blood spurted from Russia's nose, but the nation did not seemed bothered by it—instead, he moved forward to try to bring his free fist into America's face. America caught the offensive arm, and reached for Russia's shirt, yelling, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Russia? I thought we were over this Cold War shit! If you touch Arthur again, I'm openly declaring war on you! I'll make it rain _hell_ in Moscow—"

"You cannot declare war," Russia stated, feeling strangely in awe of America's newfound strength. "And even if you did, Moscow already sees hell every year. I would merely welcome you to experience it with us."

America made a derisive noise in his throat. "I don't know what's gotten _you_ so fucking paranoid—what, scared of NATO? Oh wait, I heard that China sneered at your lame weapons—first time Yao insulted you, huh? Have you come crawling back to Europe because of it? Picking fights to soothe your ego—"

America belatedly realized a pipe was heading straight to his face. He instinctively reached for his left pocket, and groaned when he realized his gun was missing. He was so sure he'd still had it when he'd entered the meeting room...

Having no choice, he ducked to one side, and grabbed Russia's arm, hoping to stop it from moving. Russia forced his arm backwards, and America moved with him, dodging Russia's offensive with unparalleled skill. They'd done this particular dance _many_ times in the past, hadn't they? Except this time, America could clearly see a knife in Russia's left pocket—useful, useful.

As Russia was kept distracted by the death-grip on his arm, America reached for the knife, fishing it out with practiced ease. The timing was perfect, as Russia's arm escaped at that exact moment and he was able to take a swing towards America's face, which America promptly blocked with his newly-found knife.

America glanced at the knife and grinned. "Still using your _nozh razvedchika_, huh, Russia?"

"Alfred!" England grabbed America's arm, grip surprisingly strong. "Enough of this nonsense!"

Russia grunted angrily at the interference, but placed his pipe back into his pocket as a gesture of temporary peace. "This is not over," he growled, just as he was regaining his balance, "Wait until the meeting is in session and I inform _everyone_ of your presence in—"

"Why the hell does it matter?" America grumbled. "What, you think I'm really gonna plant spy shit in there? I welcome you to search the place yourself and see if you can spot a thing!"

"If you were not spying, what were you doing in there then, _Amerika_?"

"I arrived _early_, alright? Is that just so wrong? Stop being so damn paranoid!"

"I think I have every right to be paranoid—or would you like to explain the LCD screen you were fumbling with on the floor?"

America's eyes suddenly widened. _Oh fuck! Of all the things..._ Japan's machine had been in the room! That was what had gotten Russia suspicious?

"That's Japan's!" he protested, "We were in the room before you came—England can testify to this—he was in the room too!"

England narrowed his eyes at America. Just what kind of crap was Alfred spouting—that England had been in the room—the general meeting area of the fucking Soviet Union? Then there was also the fact that Russia had seen America with an LCD screen in the room? What the _hell_ was Alfred thinking?

He didn't get a chance to answer though, as Russia cut in, "Oh, so _Angliya_, you were in the room with your colony? How _dare_ you accuse me of being overly paranoid when clearly—"

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Russia, I'm not his fucking _colony—_"

"Alright, that's enough!" England grabbed America's arm and roughly yanked him aside. Not his fucking colony? He would give America a piece of his mind later, after Russia was out of the way. He shot Russia a sharp glare and snapped, "I will see you in the meeting. Put _me_ on trial if you wish."

Russia glared back as a matter of protocol, but let it go, satisfied with the response.

* * *

England led America away, walking down a short pathway towards their general sleeping quarters. When they'd gotten out of Russia's hearing range, England rounded on America, grabbing his left arm and twisting it to an odd angle. His voice was low with anger as he whispered harshly, "And what the fuck was that, America?"

"Wha—England, geez, will you let go of my—" America tried in vain to free himself from England's grasp, which only grew stronger the more he struggled.

"Not my colony, huh?" England snarled, eyes lit by a cold fury, "Would you like me to show you what it's like to not have the fucking protection of the British Empire, to not—"

England's eyes widened as America lifted his free arm and slammed it into his gut. He let out a gasp of surprise at the strength, fear and anger all mixed in one. When had America grown so strong? The paranoia kicked in then, and he wondered, his mind racing—where was America getting his strength? Russia? Was his bastard of a colony making deals with the fucking Ruskie to get back at him? That explained why Canada had called him America's lapdog then, because he was playing right into the brat's hands, protecting him even though he'd already been betrayed, the fucking little—

"I don't need your fucking protection! What the fuck is wrong with you, England?" America was standing defensively, crouching, knees bent, as though preparing for a fistfight. He looked at England with a sort of cautious concern, as if he were staring at a wounded rabid animal. Then his voice became softer, and he shook his head in dismay. "Really, England, are you feeling alright?"

"Don't need my protection?" England snapped, rising from where he'd fallen. "Oh, maybe you'd like to see what Russia is really like, huh? Maybe you want him to fuck you six ways to Sunday, maybe you'll learn _then_, huh?"

"Wha—"

"You're such a goddamn _child_," England snarled, fists clenching and unclenching, as though debating whether or not to strike his colony.

"What the hell?" America yelled, "If I'm such a _child_, what do you think I've been doing the last—"

"Thinking you know the workings of the world, thinking you can defend yourself, thinking that everyone's just going to bend to your will just _because_! If it weren't for me, you'd be digging graves for Russia, and you wouldn't even fucking know it when you dig your own hole—"

With a decided scowl, America grumbled, "Don't try to delude me, England. You know perfectly well who protected _whom_ from Russia. If I left NATO, do you think it would still exist? I could accuse all of you of using me, alright? I could leave, but out of my own goodwill I stayed, I stayed and spent shit tons of money to defend you all, and you still think I'm a _child_?" He shook his head then, bitter. "And to think—I always gave you a special status, and now you—"

"No one's deluding you but yourself!" England snapped. "I'm the reason NATO exists, or that it even functions at all! You—since when have you made—"

"England, are you fucking serious?"

The British Empire stared back in surprise—something about America's voice, there was something off about it that commanded attention. Something gravely serious, but not in a acquiescent manner, in fact, it was new, different, _crazy_, as if he were speaking to an equal.

"Do you even remember what de Gaulle said?"

England just stared back at him, shock and confusion and anger lighting his face. De Gaulle? De Gaulle had pulled France out of NATO years ago, citing that France was better off without the Anglophones messing about with weapons in their land. But to think that America, America who he'd always thought was too busy hiding in the secluded forests of North America to care about other countries—especially France—or that damned fool de Gaulle—

When England didn't answer, America finished for him instead, "You know what, forget it. It's not like you remember anything I do for you anyway, right? It's always, 'Oh Alfred, what the hell is wrong with you? Dragging me into this useless war!' or 'You bloody Americans are always so stupid, untraveled and uncouth!' Listen, England, you don't have the _right_ to complain about me—you did all this shit too—you and all your European brethren, trampling all over the damn world like it was your backyard!"

America finished his rant, and breathed heavily. He didn't normally do this—no, he'd usually just let criticism slide with a cheeky grin and a nonchalant comment. After all, he was used to it, so very used to it, and there were so many of his own citizens who hated what he did too, so he understood the world's complaints and righteous anger. He'd asked Canada once if he were crazy—because there were some days he just hated himself so _so_ much, and other days where he hated the world in an irrational nationalist fervor, and he just didn't know or understand what was _right_ anymore.

_("Who was right? Damnit, Matt, which one of them is fucking right?"_

"_...Just eat, Alfred."_

_Pancakes. His favorite, and Canada always knew, didn't he?_

"_I think you already know who I think is right, Alfred."_

_Fuck, of course he did. "Who, Matt?"_

_Canada refused to answer, and America didn't get it. Why didn't his brother take the opportunity to lecture him? Why didn't Canada tell him how stupid he was, how he was ruining the world, how he was greedy and disgusting and ate far too _fucking_ much and interfered with everyone's_ _affairs and couldn't mind his own damn business and..._

"_Just say it, Matt, just say it."_

_Canada looked at him, with tired eyes and a veneer of calm. "It's...it's not you, Alfred. It's your government. I..." Canada looked to be struggling to find the right words, and then said, "I would think you would know this well—it happened before, didn't it? Remember how you came over in the 70s, against the will of your boss?"_

"_Yeah, but my people are..."_

"_You know how you said you wanted to be a hero and save the world?"_

"_Yeah, yeah," America muttered, grimacing at the cheesiness of it all, though it was now heading into familiar territory, so... "I know that's a fruitless dream, Matt."_

"_No," Canada countered. "You should be one, for yourself, and rescue yourself and your people from your government. Aren't you a damn hero?"_

_America said nothing.)_

England closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the situation. Alfred was not making _any_ sense. When had Alfred ever dragged him into war? It was usually the other way around, usually America who would complain about _England_ dragging him into wars...Perhaps the boy lacked sleep? Or maybe Russia—shit—Russia was giving the boy drugs, wasn't he—drugs to turn him against England? Russia, that goddamn tosser—he was manipulating Alfred for his own gain!

"America," he muttered finally, telling himself that Russia _would not win, _no, he wouldn't fucking allow it, "do you remember _why_ you were in that room?" He tried to keep his voice as even as possible, hoping that diplomacy would win over his colony.

"This again?" America grumbled, clearly still annoyed, "Why is everyone asking me this? I was early for once, is that so wrong?"

"That was not the meeting room, goddamnit! You can't tell me you were hanging around the Soviet Union's general meeting area and didn't know? Alfred—I am about to go on _trial_ for espionage in your place, after your stupid fucking lie—"

"What? I was in the—oh, fuck. I was in their general meeting area? Wait, the Soviet Union exists? I thought I was—"

"America, you've spoken with Russia lately, haven't you?" England asked, feeling the rising tide of his bitterness. The damn brat had probably brokered some deal, thought he was successful or some other shit like that because he'd successfully negotiated with _Russia_, only to be drugged and left out to dry, babbling nonsensical things to England, what a fucking _fool_ he was!

America, on the other hand, was in the slow process of figuring things out. "You—just how is there a Soviet Union? What year is this, England?"

"You goddamn fool!" England snapped, disappointment and anger entwining into one. "I told you not to talk to Russia—it's 2010—how could you _not_ know?" Russia had to have done something, something to drug America, something to make him lose his sense of time and history and _everything_.

"You're not making any sense, England, just listen to yourself!"

England grabbed America's shoulders then, and said, "For fuck's sake! You—what did that damn Ruskie offer you? What the hell did the two of you agree to? I fucking _trusted_ you and this is the shit I get return? You _betraying_ me like this—fuck, I should've expected this, shouldn't I? Should've anticipated that a pathetic fool like yourself would—"

"What are you talking about? Russia hasn't offered me a _thing_! What the hell? Since when have I _betrayed_ you in any way? Or are you _still_ going on about those damn DVDs—I told you that's the quintessential American—"

"Don't take me for a fool, Alfred! You sought his protection, didn't you? You brokered some deal with the bastard, so what the hell did he demand in return? Or are you so fucking naive as to believe he would give you something for _nothing_?"

"Jeez, England, why in the world would Russia protect me? Are you out of your mind? You know he doesn't think much too highly of me—why the hell would he actively _help_ me? Not to mention, why would I even _need_ his help? I'm doing perfectly fine right now, economy be damned!"

England assessed him in silence, trying to discern if he was telling the truth. If he was lying, then he was really, really good; he'd certainly never been this finessed of a liar before. Alfred was probably...

"Seriously England, I'm perfectly happy _without_ Russia's help. Besides, whatever help he gives would probably only make things worse, isn't that _obvious_?"

England's expression softened, and he loosened his death grip on America's shirt. So Alfred was actually _happy_ right now? Maybe he needn't have worried so much after all, maybe the paranoia had been pointless because America was _happy_, he was _perfectly fine_ being a British colony. England wondered if he was feeling a twinge of embarrassment for acting as he had, for being, as Alfred put it—

"You know what, you're crazy, England!" America grumbled, cutting into his thoughts. "Thinking I'd want anything to do with _Russia_, sheesh. And not to mention calling Russia the Soviet Union, he hasn't been that for _years_ now, and it's pretty damn shitty to remind him of that—"

"You _idiot_," England yelled, disbelieving, "Why wouldn't I call him the Soviet Union when that's what he clearly is? A fucking communist bastard who—"

"Woah, woah, England, seriously, calm the fuck _down_." America wrapped his arms around England's shoulders then, and whispered, hoping his gesture of peace would be appreciated, "Why can't we not argue for just one day? Please?" Because really, he was tired of the arguing, tired of the _constant_ bickering between the two of them over the past few months. Month after month of drama, drama, drama, and England complaining about how he was hitting on other nations, England insisting that his gifts were inadequate, England interpreting every single thing he did as a sign that their relationship was in decline...Then there'd finally been some peace, and England just _had_ to go and break that again, didn't he?

England blinked, eyes wide at the sudden show of affection. Since when had America ever—_ever_ willingly touched him? The boy had always kept his distance, a veneer of politeness, of respect, and perhaps a twinge of fear. England had tried to reach out to him a few times before, trying to reconstruct happier childhood memories, but his colony had always shrunk away, making polite excuses about needing to do the dishes, or clear the table, or refill the teapot. Feeling guilty about Alfred's attempt to reach out, England sighed, mumbling, "If you just hadn't gone into that room..."

"Look," America replied, showing no signs of letting go, "you don't need to take the blame for me, you know. I'll go on trial, or whatever the fuck it is Russia wants."

"No," England groused sharply, whirling around to face America. "You don't know Russia like _I_ do, you haven't seen the _crap_ he's capable of pulling, of—"

"You know, England," America chuckled, voice light. "Your attempts at protecting me are cute and all, but you gotta be realistic too. I was the one who committed the, uh, 'crime', and Russia's not gonna be satisfied unless I'm the one standing afoot of the guillotine."

England looked him in the eye and said, "This isn't a choice, America. You will stay and I will go. I don't want any of you in the meeting room today."

"What do you mean, any of us? Of course I've gotta be in the meeting room, I'm the one giving the first speech! And you know what, I actually prepared this time. I overheard stuff about Germany and China being pissed over that newest stimulus package, and I'm totally ready to counter whatever they've got against it—"

England momentarily ignored America's statement about 'going first' and concentrated instead on the newest piece of gossip his colony had seemed to pick up on—"Germany and China were complaining about that stimulus package? What the fuck does it have to do with them? It's not their affairs, it's all internal!"

"Exactly!" America beamed, glad that England seemed to be agreeing with him at last, "I mean—"

"But," England cut him off, "I certainly remember nothing on the agenda about you going first—or even at all." He leveled America with an even look, and noticed with surprise that the boy was actually looking back at him, instead of letting his eyes wander to the floor or the ceiling.

"Are you kidding me? You just asked me an hour ago if I was prepared because I was going..." America trailed off, suddenly realizing something. England was very, very weird, Russia was the Soviet Union, and both had treated him like a British colony, and _everything_ was fucking _wrong_. "Wait, England, you said we're in Russia, right?"

England sighed. How many times would he have to repeat himself? "Yes, we're in Russia, Alfred. How could you forget?"

"No, it's—you're the one _forgetting_! We were in _Antarctica_!"

"Are you off your rocker, Alfred? We've been nowhere _near_ Antarctica all day. Despite the freezing nature of the weather, what the hell would make you think—" England sighed. He was very close to entertaining further fantasies about how Russia had brought America into a drug-induced hallucination that they'd been meeting in Antarctica. Maybe the bastard had purposefully dragged the hallucinating America into the USSR meeting room to give himself leverage...maybe...

"You've been acting crazy all day, how the hell—"

"That's _enough_," England stated finally, unwilling to entertain any more of America's fantasies. Just when he'd thought Alfred was becoming tolerable, was trying to actually give England the respect he deserved again, the damn boy had to go and pull _this—_"I will not tolerate any further disrespect from you, especially not after the shit you pulled today."

"England, listen—"

He gestured to the building they'd arrived at, and commanded, "Get in there, and stay in there. I have a goddamn meeting in less than an hour where I need to explain _your_ fucking stupidity to everyone else. I'll come for you when I need you, but don't you _dare_ come into the meeting room unannounced. And tell Canada I expect to have a serious talk with him later."

England pushed America in, and slammed the door behind him, fumbling to lock it from the outside. He didn't _want_ to lock America in, but—damnit it, hadn't the brat caused enough trouble today? And the little shit didn't even sound like he'd learned a thing. _Maybe Russia was right, maybe you need to be harder on him..._

He sighed, slumping against the wall in an attempt to calm his frazzled nerves. Behind the door, he could hear muffled yells, courtesy of America: "What the hell, England? Who says I'm gonna do what _you_ want? Open the fucking door!"

When had America grown this _loud_?

Was it because of that last time...? England sunk his head in his arms, suddenly remembering...

—the blinding rage, the alcohol coursing through his veins, serving as delicious fuel for his anger... Alfred hadn't always been an ungrateful brat, no, no. Before that day...

The boy had been unfailingly polite, hadn't he? He rarely raised his voice, rarely argued back, kept his head down like a good colony should. But there was always that—that something England couldn't quite put a finger on. It was like he had a sense of bitterness about him, like he was resentful of receiving free room and board, like he was biting back sarcastic quips every time they spoke, hiding behind a false pretense of humility. He remembered the boy's smile once, over tea—

_A faint whisper: "It's good to see you, England."_

_A frown, followed by a correction: "Arthur. How many times do I have to tell you it's Arthur?"_

_A hasty apology: "Sorry, I forgot again. Arthur. So...what are you doing here?"_

_Thrust. "What? I can't visit without your questioning me? I thought you said it was good to see me."_

_Parry. "Oh, it is, it is! I was just...curious, that's all. You looked busy and everything, so I figured..."_

"_Yes, busy indeed. So much heat from everyone, all the time. Spain whinging, Germany yelling, damn bastards, the lot of them. But I do have some good news with me today."_

"_Oh...that sounds good." A pause, as America poured him his tea. "So...what is it then?"_

"_Someone within the USSR has been leaking information anonymously. There's been a set of supposedly official documents detailing Moscow's political infighting—it's been plastered all over the internet." He smiled then, sipping his lukewarm tea, and continued, "Of course, we'd know so much more if the data hadn't been encrypted..."_

"_Oh," America nodded, lips quirking just enough to resemble a smile, "that's good. I...do you want me to help?"_

"_Certainly." He grinned and held out his hand then, in a gesture of agreement, waiting for America to confirm. "Your help would be a great asset, and perhaps it would speed up the Soviet Union's fall from grace." _

_America nodded again in response, and placed his palm in England's hand. He made no attempts to actually return England's handshake, instead choosing to let his hand lie limp in England's grasp. The smile on his face matched the limpness of his fingers and England—_

England had wanted to slap some sense into him—but how could you slap someone who smiled (though it didn't reach his eyes), who nodded (though it felt wooden), who agreed with your words (though perhaps not in his heart) and never spoke out of line? He couldn't—he couldn't meet a smiling man with violence. And he couldn't bring himself to ask Alfred for the truth, to stop with the _fucking_ lying either. Truth, _fuck truth!_

It had been some seventy odd years, seventy odd years since America had first donned that hollow, hollow smile. He'd had a feeling that Canada had been behind this, how very like Matthew, to be silent and talk behind his back, sway Alfred to his side, work together to stab their goddamn protector in the back.

...but then again, Matthew was there that day, when Alfred had...stepped out of line...he was there, and he'd—

_("Get out. Get out!"_

_I'm sorry, I didn't mean—_

"_Get out! Goddamnit! Just—just leave!"_

_I'm going, I'm going...damn it to hell, what the fuck have I done?)_

Was it that then? Was that what had made Canada snap?

But America—America had been the one out of line. America had accused him of being a communist over a few measly bailouts. His empire had always been a force for good, for stability, and without it they'd all be a bunch of useless barbarians fighting pointless border skirmishes, so why couldn't America _see_ that? Why did the boy have to be so _fucking_ resentful and angry, when England was the one shouldering all the burden? The damn brat had taken all of his work for granted, had insulted him when he'd sacrificed so much—and—

—and he was loathe to admit it but he'd also been afraid, so, so afraid at the prospect of losing his colonies, afraid that America would go to Russia for freedom, would do anything to leave...

_And yet Alfred defended you today anyway. Even after what you pulled that night..._

* * *

**brief historical/other notes**

- "De Gaulle protested at the United States' strong role in the organization and what he perceived as a special relationship between the United States and the United Kingdom." - see en . wikipedia . org / wiki / NATO

- "Why China Snubs Russia Arms" - the-diplomat . com / 2010 / 04 / 05 / why-china-snubs-russian-arms /

- That thing Canada said to America about 'rescuing your country from its government' I remember seeing on someone's shirt. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find the shirt, or else I'd totally buy it.

- Those "damn DVDs" America refers to are gifts Obama gave to Brown, which apparently didn't work because they only play on US DVD players. A number of UK newspapers used this to highlight that the US wasn't taking the 'special relationship' seriously.

- The nozh razvedchika is a Soviet combat knife used in WWII - en . wikipedia . org / wiki / NR-40


	3. a little game : our world

**back in our world**

Reviews are very much appreciated!

* * *

America didn't understand why England had suddenly moved so close. He couldn't stand it—England's presence was already suffocating, and in close proximity it was simply _unbearable_. He contemplated making some excuse about leaving, maybe he could say he'd forgotten something and needed to find it? Maybe—

He was lucky, as the doors behind them suddenly burst open, and a large crowd of nations began flowing fluidly through the door.

England jerked around in anger—did those bastards just have to have their lunch break _now_, during his crowning moment of intimacy?

America breathed a sigh of relief at the distraction. Then, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, he asked, "So...are we adjourning for lunch?"

"Yes, I suppose we are." England looked mildly peeved, over what exactly America couldn't discern. (Had England been trying to hug him? If he thought a gesture like that could make up for the years and years of—) "And I'd suggest we get some food, but..." England continued, looking at America to judge if the other still looked out of it. He was not in the mood for vomiting of any sort, especially _not_ in Antarctica, where showering was likely a freeze-to-death business.

"I'm feeling fine, we should just eat," America answered, because really, the way his stomach was churning in the last hour—fear to hope to confusion to irritation back to fear again—food could just be the cure-all.

"Good, good," England mumbled, starting to move inside (he'd had more than enough of the cold), against the current wave of nations pouring out.

Once they were inside, America began, "Did you bring food—oh, no wait, don't answer that." He gave a faint, lopsided grin to match England's growing scowl. He enjoyed making jabs about the Empire's food-making abilities, as this was the safest way to shove a few insults England's way without any real damage. England would become annoyed, but it was superficial, nothing that would end with genuine rage.

"What about it?" England snapped, looking defensive, "I _bought_ food this time, on the plane that took me here, so don't you dare complain about the quality! Besides, I have no intentions of sharing it with you anyway, what with you and your incessant complaining!"

America shook his head, looking away with an amused grin playing at his lips. "I wasn't about to ask, I'll just buy some—"

England smirked, feeling decidedly evil—"You do realize that there aren't any of your infamous burgers joints around here, right? And none of your coffee shops either. No stores for miles and miles, so if you didn't think ahead to bring food..." England grinned in mad amusement. Boy was America screwed...

America's eyes widened, looking slightly worried. The fact that he liked coffee was supposed to be a secret of sorts, kept alive by small, local breweries who'd smuggled their beans in from his southern neighbor. Smuggled, because with the tariffs England had set up, their coffee would be prohibitively expensive otherwise. America figured England had to know about the smuggling, but the Empire had never once insinuated that he thought America _personally_ liked the drink. As far as England was concerned, coffee was synonymous with 'tax evasion' and 'gang activity', things America was keen to show no support for, symbolic or otherwise. Instead, he'd always kept a stash of tea for when England visited, always forced himself to take a few sips of the tea...

_(Canada had suggested this—"You know, if you want England to get off your case, at least pretend to do what he wants. Next thing you know he'll be too busy in Europe and you can do whatever you want." Then, Canada, along with his bear and level 1000 subterfuge skills, had taken out several large sacks of tea from his backpack and stuffed them in the nearest cupboard._

_"There." He'd announced, triumphant.)_

"I don't know what makes you think I like coffee," America began, choosing his words carefully, "I've always liked your tea just fine." Coffee wasn't a communist drink, was it? Besides, he'd heard that Russia liked tea a lot, so that meant England was actually more of a commie than America was.

"You, not liking coffee? What, are we turning over a new leaf here? Drinking tea? Or is it vodka now?" England snorted, not realizing the implications of his words.

"What are you talking about? I wouldn't drink vodka—what makes you think that? I hate vodka—it's a—it's a communist drink!" America let out hoarsely, hoping he sounded convincing (and that Lithuania wasn't around to be offended by it). He wasn't a commie, no, of course not! He was no good at this subterfuge business, but by god, England could not cut off communications between him and Lithuania...could not...

"Communist?" England's eyes darkened (he still recalled all the occasions where America and Russia were glaring madly at each other, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes locked like a matching pair of raving lunatics, and England hated Russia evermore because he thought for decades and decades that he was really losing America, that he'd raised a monster, that...) "Are you still going on about that? Russia is hardly communist anymore, and you _still_ can't get over it? You won, for fuck's sake."

"What...?" America asked weakly. "So Russia isn't...so you're not mad at him anymore?"

England's eyebrows furrowed and he suddenly had a determined look in his eyes. America watched, worried and confused as England marched for the door without another word.

What the hell was wrong with the Empire today?

—

"So, Germany, I was thinking..."

"I do hope it's with your brain, France." Germany remarked dryly. The two were huddling against each other to ward off the cold. Of course, Germany realized, if it hadn't been so remarkably cold France might've suggested they take a shower together, and perhaps offer up his massage services (which was something Germany could definitely use today).

"Now that's a bit harsh, don't you think?" France countered, brushing his hands through Germany's hair. "I am perfectly capable of rational thought—where do you think Voltaire or Sartre or—"

"Alright, I get the point. You were thinking." France was capable of thought, Germany knew, it was just that when the nation's voice took on the tone it did, it usually meant he was thinking about something very, very far from rational.

"Yes, yes, indeed I was!" France continued blithely, "A few weeks ago America told me he was thinking of playing a little game...and it seems like he's putting things into action today. I didn't realize he would do it so soon—I had expected him to wait for a warmer and more private location. In any case, he does not seem to be overt enough in his—"

"France, it would do us all some good if you could tell America to stop playing games. His latest—"

"Stimulus program—oh I know, Germany! You're so very hung up over that, time to loosen up a bit, don't you think? Besides, England may be right about China—certainly you cannot believe Yao is complaining because he actually cares about the other developing countries, can you? South Africa and Brazil I can believe, but China? He is the one who holds most of America's debt."

"France," Germany grumbled, "this isn't about China. This is about how America's domestic policy will affect the world, including me and you. And since when have you gotten around to sticking up for _England_ anyway?"

"Is that jealousy I detect?" France laughed, and buried himself comfortably next to Germany's neck. But when he moved to cup Germany's face in his hands, Germany immediately jerked back ("Your hands are freezing!"), giving a shout of annoyance. France cursed what the Antarctican weather had done to his fingers.

"I assure you I am not jealous," Germany muttered after he'd recovered from the assault on his body heat, "Look, America is causing a lot of trouble, and if he's playing games again, that is simply not amusing—"

"It is not that type of game, Germany." France grinned. "It is much more...romantic, something clearly neither you nor England is capable of appreciating."

Germany sighed. Of course France would talk about this. "I don't know why you're telling me this—I have no intentions of intervening with America and England's relationshi—"

France chuckled. "Oh, no, I was certainly not asking you to do that! I was merely telling you some little facts—interesting news to float around the conference room a bit, don't you think? To lighten up the current wave of doom and gloom."

"France..." Germany muttered, disbelieving.

France continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "So, some weeks ago, America came to me saying that he intended to spice things up with England. He was asking for advice..."

"I have a difficult time believing he'd ask you for advice," Germany interrupted, reaching around to cradle France's head. After which France immediately huffed—"Your hands are just as freezing!"—and Germany had to choke down his laughter at the pout on France's face.

"But just for you," France breathed, grinning, "I'll let you steal some of my body heat." Then he whispered, breath nice and warm against Germany's ears, "And, you're always perceptive, as usual. So perhaps America did not seek my counsel directly, but he—" France let his hands wander underneath the layers of Germany's coat, and continued, "—he did so indirectly through—"

"So basically, you forced your advice on him?" Germany asked, trying to guide France's freezing fingers away from that part of his stomach that tickled. He was failing and flailing spectacularly.

"No, not at all!" France replied, not seeming to notice Germany's discomfort, "He asked Canada for help, and Canada forwarded a series of emails to me, asking me to augment his advice. I had to oblige—America seems to have inherited the prude genes from England!"

"Prude? I thought_—_you told me they'd been 'doing it' for quite some time_—ahh—_" Germany wasn't sure if he could breathe, given the way France was currently assaulting his neck with his lips. At least it was nice and warm and a great break from the cold and_—_

"They have, they have," France began, stopping for a moment and earning an annoyed look from Germany (did France have to pause in the middle to tease him?). "America wanted to act out some sexual fantasy with England, but he was afraid he would be received the wrong way."

"I thought you said England was a...'kinky bastard'," Germany muttered, tracing his own (freezing) fingers across a scar on France's stomach (a self-inflicted one from the late 1700s), and carefully avoiding the other scar on his back (because Germany had remembered giving this one, and even if France didn't seem to care anymore, it just wasn't _right_).

"He is, he is, but America thinks England will be sensitive to this particular subject matter and their recent drama is probably not helping his case. Perhaps he is right, perhaps he is wrong, we will find out soon, right? England is really quite clueless at times..." France grinned and turned to face Germany, "But let us not worry over their constantly unresolved issues, hm?"

"Indeed," Germany agreed, glad that France would finally stop talking.

France chuckled warmly. "After all, their relationship is not nearly as special as _ours_."

—

England belatedly realized that he did not have many friends he could talk to about this...transformed America. Besides France, but that nation was _not_ his friend, damnit! (Their military alliance was just that—an _alliance_. Friendship played no part in politics!)

There was something very...alien...about the way America had lied. Sure, America had lied plenty of times, but the all the lies he'd heard were either insanely ludicrous ("I'm sending hamburgers into outer space to attract alien signals!") or damagingly subtle ("They fucking hate me and I didn't even—I need you, please, England! Let's pay them back together, like we did back in '45! Did you hear them cheering—celebrating when I fell? Fuck them, England, fuck them all—we'll show 'em—we'll show 'em, won't we? If they think they can hide weapons like that—"), not made up a series of false numbers.

Then there was that lie about how his nation's economy was _recovering_, and the paranoid Red Scare-esque fear of communism, and the dislike of coffee! And not to mention that America had barely commented at all on his newest military development involving France. Surely the nation would show a _tiny_ bit of unease? Even if France and America got along more nowadays, he _knew_ that America would not want France being in on their intelligence gathering, and yet the nation had mentioned _nothing_ about it.

Something was very, very off about America.

Germany had the misfortune of walking by, clothes looking slightly disheveled and hair in disarray. If England didn't know any better, he'd say that Germany's face carried a flush of satisfaction and that the nation reeked of...France. England needed to speak to someone, anyone, even if it was post-sex Germany—

"Germany, do you have a moment?" The shorter nation turned to face him, too polite to refuse.

"Ah, England, did you need something?" Germany gazed back at him, expression unchanged.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you. It's—it's about America."

Germany frowned, as though he knew something was astray. "Oh, _Amerika_, is it?"

"Yes—I—well, did you believe a word of his speech today? That gold belt business and all?"

Germany paused, presumably thinking, and said, "It does not seem reasonable for _Amerika_ to start lying now. He already took the bulk of the blame for his economical failures at that last meeting we had."

"Yes, but—okay, let me explain—he told me just a few weeks ago about the state of his economy—it was clear he was spouting absolute nonsense in his speech. Except his nonsense actually sounded believable this time, with all those made-up statistics. And it goes beyond that—he tried to convince me with a straight face that he hates coffee!" England decided not to mention the military alliance with France incident—it would require an even longer explanation, and Germany probably didn't care for his trans-Atlantic insecurities.

"His actions are...perhaps you've convinced him to enjoy tea?" This time, Germany looked a bit nervous, and England had to wonder what he was hiding. "Besides, France informs me that—"

"Please, France wouldn't know prized figs from culinary disaster"—here Germany begged to differ—"and seriously, you expect me convince Alfred? He's a stubborn prat, and hasn't been remotely retractable since that damned revolution of his."

"Well, England, have you ever thought that this may just be a prolonged practical joke on his part?" Germany asked carefully, thinking back to France's words. Post-coitus, France had given him an overly long and detailed explanation of his neighbor's ongoing trans-Atlantic romantic insanity, but repeating it did not sound like a good idea.

"Practical joke?" England protested, "It's not April Fool's today, and Antarctica is hardly the place to be playing practical jokes at. Not to mention that if he really has a recession that bad, he shouldn't be joking—he needs _help_, damnit!"

—

America pressed his head against the door to the hallway, straining to eavesdrop on England and Germany.

"...and seriously, you expect me convince Alfred? He's a stubborn prat, and hasn't been remotely retractable since that damned revolution of his."

Hadn't been remotely retractable? What the hell was England talking about? He'd gone ahead and done what England wanted for the last two hundred years, and England thought him stubborn and intractable?

"...if he really has a recession that bad..."

Okay, that clinched it. England was _delusional_. England was the one with the recession, not America!

—

"...forgive me, England, but I would say France is generally pretty accurate on matters related to...social interaction." Germany neglected to mention these social interactions were usual sexual in nature, and continued, "Have you and_ Amerika_, and forgive me for this poor wording in English, but have you and him..." Germany made a few vague hand gestures.

Had this been France, England would've punched the nation in the gut. But seeing as it was Germany, and England was not about to lose his composure in front of Germany, he resorted to glaring.

"_What_?" He snapped, daring Germany to continue.

Germany shrugged and said, "_Frankreich_ could be wrong, but he says _Amerika _is engaging in..._un jeu de role_, and that it is very _publiquement_ and that it involves _les jours de colonies_."

England stared back blankly, trying to decipher what Germany had said in French (French, as much as he hated to admit, _was_ the second most taught language in his schools, and he definitely spoke it better than his schoolchildren, though it was a lot harder with the added German accent). So if "jeu" was "play", and "jours" was "days" and...then that meant...

_...Roleplay? Colonial days?_

From behind the wall, America suddenly heard a loud yell—"Damnit France! Just what the hell makes you think we would want to—to relive those days?"

"_Angleterre, pardon_," a third voice, clearly France's, drifted in through the walls, "_mais pourquoi tu ne choisis pas de jouer ce petit jeu d'Alfred? C'est une géniale idée, je crois_."

"Say something I can understand, would you?" England snarled, annoyed, unwilling to decipher more French.

"Of course, England, but perhaps you should direct such a tone to _ta colonie precieuse_, hm? Given the game he's been playing, he'd certainly appreciate it."

"_Ta colonie precieuse_"? Which colony was France referring to, exactly? England had so many, America thought, annoyed. And a game? Fuck, they were talking about America and Canada, weren't they? And that game, was it referring to their friends in the Eastern Bloc, oh gods, oh gods...America pressed his ears closer to the wall, fear eating away at his mind.

"What the hell are you on, France? I haven't had a real colony in years! Those islands hardly count now!"

England hadn't had a colony in years? Then what about him, and Canada, and India, and Australia, and Hong Kong, and ...oh hell, he didn't even remember everyone. England was beyond delusional.

"Do not be so dense, _Angleterre_, surely you see how _les Etats-Unis_ has changed today? Giving you all these looks, looking for your approval. He even tried to pretend you should've spoken in his place at the conference, as if you were really his ruler and he the colony. Ah, such a loss that you are incapable of reading these important little details to his actions. And did he not pretend to like tea over coffee?"

"He never mentioned a thing about tea!" England snapped, lying swiftly. How in the world did France know about all of this anyway?

"Ah, England," France began, "let me let you in on a secret." There was a rustling of noises that sounded like France was pulling England closer, followed by a flurry of French. "_Tu sais qu'il y a des gens qui ont beaucoup de pouvoir dans leur vie, qui évacuent leur stress dans des rôles de soumission? Tu as eu ces moments aussi, quand tu étais l'Empire britannique, n'est-ce pas? Et je me souviens, tu es venu vers moi...Mais maintenant, les Etats-Unis sont les mêmes._ He is the lone superpower, and surely this is him expressing his needs—"

There was more rustling, and then England, who seemed to have understood exactly what France was getting at, shouted, "Goddamnit, France, I don't need you to spell it out—"

"If you are that dense, then obviously you do!" France protested.

Germany could only clutch his head in pain. It baffled him to no end exactly _why_ Canada had chosen to forward those messages to France, surely he could see the international maelstrom that was to follow? Surely...perhaps he ought to speak to Canada.

America closed his eyes, finding himself leaning against the comfort of the wall. Whatever speech France had just made to England was clearly very important if he wanted to unravel this mystery. He tried to recall the French he knew from Louisiana, buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind..._Tu sais qu'il y a des gens qui ont beaucoup de pouvoir dans leur vie..._You know that there are people...who wield a lot of power_...qui évacuent leur stress dans des rôles de soumission..._who evacuate?—No, relieve?—their stress by playing submissive roles...

People with a lot of power? Who exactly...was France talking about England? It could explain why England had been so angry. Then he remembered France's next sentence...

_Les Etats-Unis sont les m__ê_mes. The United States is the same.

He was...the same? Did that make him powerful? No wait, he was the _lone superpower_, as France had put it.

Why the hell would he want to pretend to be England's colony if he really was a superpower? It made no sense—or would it only make sense if he were actually a powerful nation? But if England and the others _really_ believed that, perhaps he could play along. And it would be easy, almost like a dream within a dream within a dream, where he was pretending to be a colony when no one thought he was a colony when he actually _was_ a colony. Damn.

But at the same time, if they found out he was a fraud, how would they react? Or, considering that they were likely on drugs right now, how would they react when they finally woke up from their reverie and discovered America had spent a good chunk of time marauding as a world superpower?

—

America could hear the door being fumbled with, and he quickly removed himself from the wall, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible while gazing into some nonexistent point in the distance.

England looked a bit addled when he stepped out into the hall, and he turned towards America, shouting, "I don't play these...these games in public, you fool!" He was clearly referencing his earlier conversation with France, and America was glad he had actually understood it.

America stared back, willing himself to look a bit more composed than he actually was. "Al-alright, England, where _do_ you want to go?" A game? Had he misunderstood France? Was this business of pretending to be a colony while not a colony when one actually was a colony supposed to be a game of some sort to England? What was the point of it anyway?

England blushed (not a difficult task, given the cold) and muttered, "Definitely not in Antarctica, you dolt. I'd very much like to keep my clothes on while I'm here before I get frostbite in all the wrong places."

America did not fail to look ever more confused. "That's...that's, of course, it's too cold out here. Let's go inside and we can talk—"

"Yes," France grinned, stepping outside as well, "The two of you should get a room, or else it'd be a spectator sport, non? Not that we'd mind watching you discipline your colony."

America's eyes widened upon hearing France say "discipline your colony", suddenly afraid. So he was back to being England's colony now? Was that just some elaborate lie? Had France and England been working together (hadn't they formed some military alliance earlier?), lying to draw him out from the safety of the room he was in earlier? Maybe they'd pretended to treat him like a "world superpower", as France put it, but were really looking for some opportunity to trap him in his myriad of lies.

He could tell, he could just feel it—they were going to accuse him of fraternizing with the enemy, of dancing with the fucking devil, of being an enemy to the British Empire, and... Were they going to chain him up again, like England had after that disastrous revolution? Could he really live through that again? Fuck, how could he have been so stupid? How could he have believed that _any_ of those damn European nations would give him the time of day? So, so, stupid!

He broke out of his reverie when he saw England roaring something fierce at France, and Germany announcing very loudly that lunch was over, damnit, so they should just hurry back into their seats and stop their childish infighting. In fact, England would've succeeded in lunging at France's throat if Germany hadn't stepped in to pull them apart. It was almost comical the way Germany had wrapped himself around France's flailing arms, succeeding in keeping the nation restrained.

And to think that the two of them were signing an agreement on military cooperation, of all things...

—

After lunch, during which he'd very much failed to eat, America was mildly afraid that everyone would ask him about the stimulus program again—he still wasn't used to having so many eyes on him. To make matters worse, the other nations were all under the same trance as England, and, unlike England, were currently playing a game of "How to best crush America the ailing superpower with our glaring abilities."

He was slightly happy, though, when South Italy and Luxembourg had taken the stage with great fervor and lambasted Franco-German arrogance together. He didn't fully understand what the nations were talking about—something related to "joint euro-bonds", which the two were very much in favor of, but which America had no idea about. Must've been a European thing, he decided.

In the end, Romano had yelled in such a manner that America thought he could see Germany sweat, and he almost felt bad. Almost.

"Just because the idea isn't born from Franco-German loins doesn't make it crap! You'll see where your arrogance gets you, you fools!" Romano had growled into the microphone, and he'd turned towards Germany, continuing, "Germany, you think your little dance sequence during the last few months was useful? It's just some show-off crap that no one wants to see, and it'll get us nowhere. And you know what, the EU is not some place where large states have all the control and the small ones just have to cave and bend to their power. We, all twenty-seven of us, demand equal say!"

Their entire speech, America mused, was just a big "fuck you" to Germany and France. He supposed schadenfreude described his feelings well—at least now Germany understood how painfully annoying it was to be interrogated. Oh, the irony that it was a German word which described his feelings perfectly...

—

Later, Germany, having recovered from Luxembourg's rant, announced that due to the lack of amenities in Antarctica, nations would need to share rooms. There would be two bunk beds, so it was to be four nations to a room, and in deciding rooms, all the nations would be arranged alphabetically and then grouped, so as to avoid pointless international quarrels leading to equally pointless international warfare.

America found out that his arrangement was a mild disaster-in-the-making:

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—  
| Room 72 ... ... ... ... ... ... .|  
| Ukraine ... ... ... ... ... ... ...|  
| United Arab Emirates ... ...|  
| United Kingdom ... ... ... ...|  
| United States ... ... ... ... ..|  
—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

_Ukraine_ would be in the same room as him and England. _Fuck_.

He tried to be logical:

If England did not break out of his current trance, this arrangement would not be problematic. Probability? Unknown.

If England _did_ break out of his trance, then one of four things could happen.

One, England could somehow see through the four-way unofficial ubersecret alliance America, Lithuania, Canada, and Ukraine had developed. Luckily, America was not the closest to Ukraine out of the four, so perhaps it'd be easier for them to give each other the cold shoulder. Probability? Unknown.

Two, England might just notice nothing out of the ordinary, despite breaking out of his trance. Probability? Unknown.

Three, Ukraine might be in the trance as well and thus not even remember having any sort of secret alliance with America. Then, even if England broke out of his trance, he wouldn't notice a thing. Probability? Unknown.

And four, the United Arab Emirates might slap a raw sausage (provided generously by Germany) on England's forehead and knock the nation out for the rest of the night. Probability? Unknown.

What worried America was that all the probabilities were just a long list of unknowns, and if he did say so himself, fuck variables.

—

England saw the list Germany had generated and cursed their lack of amenities. On a typical meeting, they'd have two to a room, and he could be in a room _alone_ with America. Four people to a room was pure hogwash!

Now, he had nothing against either Ukraine or the United Arab Emirates (his interactions with them had been cordial and were mostly trade-related), but there _had_ to be a good way to get them both to leave for a while. A bribe might work, but only if he had something both of them would be interested in. Considering his current dearth of money and general lack of natural resources...

—

Normally America would've sought out Canada for advice. Canada, who was in a better-heated room (because their ventilation system was so poor that only the rooms closest to the heat source actually felt much heat) and had the great luck of being able to avoid England. But now, he wasn't sure if Canada was also in a drug-induced trance, and given his brother's earlier statements about how odd it was that America didn't know he was presenting first, perhaps he was as well...

America closed his eyes, leaning into the fabric of his sparsely furnished bed. He was glad that none of the other occupants of his room had returned yet, so he could relax alone for a bit. Maybe, he thought, his thoughts wandering, just maybe, he should inform England of the truth. Perhaps England wouldn't believe him, but at least the truth would be _out_, and he wouldn't feel like he was walking on eggshells all the time. But perhaps he should do it after they were done rooming with Ukraine. Or perhaps he should just take advantage of the newly-obtained powers he had while he could. And perhaps...

The door opened then, and to America's disappointment, England appeared at the other end.

"Hi, Eng—Arthur. Nice to see you," America said, but without much conviction.

England nodded, looking around the room. "Looks like the others haven't returned yet, have they?"

"No," America answered, wondering what England was getting at, "not yet."

England looked delighted. "Do you think—perhaps this is too evil of us—do you think we should just lock the door for a few hours?"

"Wha—What do you mean?"

"Oh, come now," England scoffed, "We lock the doors, and get some nice alone time without Ukraine and the UAE hovering about. And you know what, you're not _that_ dense, not even when you were my colony."

America's eyes widened at the verb tense—he "was" England's colony...meaning that England hadn't broke out of his trance yet. So far so good. But on the other hand, he wasn't particularly excited about spending _any_ time with England, and he still hadn't decided if he should attempt to tell England the truth or not, and everything was just so fucking _complicated_ and his room just had to be so damn cold and why did Canada, who was used to cold weather, get the nice, warm room at the other end of the hall...

England walked toward the door, presumably to lock it, and voiced America's complaints about the cold aloud. "It's fucking cold in here, Alfred. Do you not have any sense—you should've turned on the heat!" He snapped the lock on the door and went around to fumble with the heater.

"I did," America spoke, "it's at the max, but we're too far from the heating source for it to have any effect."

England groaned. "Antarctican bastards. I guess we'll just have to warm each other then, hm?" He gave America an amused look, and seated himself on the same bed America was stretched out on.

America edged away to make room for England, and stared at the nation in silence. Should he tell? Should he attempt to reveal the truth? He took a deep breath, and hesitated before saying, "England—we—we have to talk. I don't think it's right for me to be a fraud." There, the truth, or at least a segment of it. But as soon as the words left his mouth, America knew it was the wrong thing to say. Because England was smiling and his smile was wrong, very very wrong—

England was moving towards him, a feral grin lighting his face, "Oh, is that so? And in what aspect have you lied to us today, America? Perhaps this new-found lying of yours needs to be rectified, hm?"

"No, no—you misunderstand," America began, sounding slightly desperate as England closed in on him, placing his hands around his shoulders. England had obviously misinterpreted this as a part of the role-playing; perhaps he thought America-the-colony needed to sound desperate or something.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," England breathed into his ear, and America shuddered when he felt the hot breath against his ears. He just couldn't see the England in his memories this way—fuck—had England always thought of him this way? And then the nation had only felt brave enough to act when he was on drugs? This wasn't supposed to happen, this was barbaric, this was worse than Russia, worse than any shit he'd every seen. He had to get England off of him, had to—

England kissed him then, roughly, first on the neck, and then on the lips, where he hovered momentarily with a hungry look in his eyes.

"Kiss me back," he commanded, letting his mouth descend onto America's again and allowing his tongue to roam.

America pulled away as much as he could and mumbled, "Please, don't—England!" And it was all in vain, because England was too damn heavy, and he couldn't push the nation off, and who the fuck was going to help him anyway? He was English property, and no one would give a shit what England chose to do with him, no one...

He could feel England's hand reaching for his own belt, trying to undo it. He could hear himself yelling something, something useless, because England wasn't stopping, England didn't understand.

He didn't want to see that look on Canada's face again, the pitying one, and this time it'd be filled with worry and disgust and shame. And Canada would be so, so angry at England again, and the two of them would sit silently, stewing in their resentment and bitterness, eating their meal of cold pizza and carbonated soft drinks, and even if America hated the silence, what was there to say, what was there to say?

Because no one was going to do anything, no one...

—

Japan found that his inbox had amassed a good twenty messages, all from the same sender, America.

America really was a prolific email writer, but he still wasn't prolific enough to send twenty emails each only _minutes_ apart. Japan hesitantly clicked on a message, and groaned when he realized the message was blank. In fact, 17 of the twenty messages were blank, one was filled with garbled (probably an encoding error) text, and two looked like they actually held readable content. Japan navigated to one of the two legible messages and sighed when he realized it only had two words: 'hey kiku'. The second message was much better:

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

hey kiku,

i got a major problem here. sorry i probably sent you a million blank messages, i  
was testing out the messaging system, my bad. this is insane to explain but  
anyway, i think your teleportation thing did something crazy.

because i'm not a british colony and everyone here thinks i am, there hasn't  
been a ussr for decades, but there is one here. remember those alternate  
universes we used to joke about? this might be a reality, and i might be fucked.

gotta have your help man.

-alfred

p.s., if i'm here there's probably some america-look-alike in my place. if my  
theory is right, he/i should've been really weird today. let me know if this is the  
case, and ask him if it's ok for canada and me to declare war on england. he can  
thank us later. hah.

p.p.s., i almost forgot, you need to know how to send cross universe emails (like  
i just did) before you can reply. just use a negative port # (ie instead of port 80  
try port -80. it can be any neg port. you can also try imaginary numbers, haven't  
messed with those and wouldn't suggest it but it's up to you.) i've made the  
machine receive on all negative/imaginary ports, so just pick one and send.

p.p.p.s., oh and japan, if you want the theory behind all this, you'll have to nullify  
my debt first. it's only fair! ;)

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

Japan nearly choked when he'd finished reading the message. Alternate universes? Cross-universe emails? Damn, he had to find America, if the nation in his world was even America as he knew him. What room was America staying in again? Japan glanced down the roster—70, no, 72.

Off to room 72 it was.

* * *

**notes:**

- "Luxembourg slams 'arrogant' Berlin, Paris ahead of EU summit" - business . asiaone . com/Business/News/Story/A1Story20101215-252976 . html - Luxembourg's foreign minister criticized Germany for not accepting joint eurobonds, as proposed by Italy and Luxembourg. As eurobonds were proposed by both Italy and Luxembourg, I took some liberties and had Romano/Luxembourg both take the stage in Germany/France complaining.

- Port 80 is the port an http daemon listens to to retrieve packets of information. The negative/imaginary # ports were made up for inter-universe communications. As for America being technically inclined—he's got Silicon Valley! Goofball he may be, but he's not a technophobe.

* * *

Things are finally progressing—yay Japan! (And a lot happened in the other world to lead up to America's email, which will be revealed soon.) I was itching to write the theory behind the cross-universe stuff, but figured that'd be a bit boring. :P Has anyone read Rudy Rucker's stuff and really liked it? Essentially I'd be attempting to pull off something like that.

Also, please correct my French! I was mostly going off what I learned through high school. Part of what France said ('évacuent leur stress dans des rôles de soumission'_)_ was obtained from here: forum . wordreference . com / ? t = 292249 and the rest was written by me. Translations of the part that wasn't translated by America: _Tu as eu ces moments aussi, quand tu étais l'Empire britannique, n'est-ce pas? Et je me souviens, tu es venu vers moi... _You had these moments too, when you were the British Empire. And as I remember, you came to me...


	4. bits of truth : alternate universe

**chapter 4**

* * *

The door behind him suddenly exploded, splinters flying in every possible direction, one burying itself in his arm, drawing blood.

"Who the hell—" he snarled, whirling around in anger. He locked eyes with America's, rage morphing into shock. Had Alfred just _smashed_ the door open? This sudden strength—the damn boy was stealing it from _somewhere_, clearly, clearly—

The way the splintered door had ripped into his arm, the way his skin had tore upon impact—how could anyone _dare_ to hurt him so? It went beyond that, though. He couldn't allow America to disobey his orders and get away with it, that would set an untimely precedent. Perhaps a lesson was in order—he wrenched a hand around America's neck and slammed the boy into the door frame, using his own weight to keep his colony from escaping.

America's eyes looked wild, with anger or desperation England couldn't tell. It didn't matter though, did it? The brat thought he could go on a power trip and humiliate England in the process. Russia was right, as much as he didn't want to admit, but keeping his colonies in line required a lot more than pure rhetoric. He was done with fancy rhetoric, done with begging Alfred to listen to him, done with choosing his words carefully to avoid offending. He was _fucking_ done.

"Can you not listen to simple directions?" he seethed, "I _told_ you to stay in the damn room!" (Why wasn't America terrified? Why wasn't he _afraid_?)

England ripped the splinter from his arm and waved it furiously in America's face. "I have had more than enough of your bullshit today—more than enough!"

He buried his fist into America's cheek, once, twice, three times—

England didn't get a chance to duck as America lifted his legs into the air, kicking wildly and catching him on the shin. The hand he'd forced around America's neck slipped, and he shifted backwards to avoid America's fist. He reached down to grab a splintered door piece and wasted no time in slamming it into America's legs as hard as he could. When his colony crumbled to the ground with a yell of pain, he gave a satisfied snort, and raised the stick again, readying for a swing to the stomach, when America—America _stood up_. America was still able to stand despite being hit in the legs, a hit that should've _broken_ them.

"What the hell is this, England?" America wheezed, wrapping a hand around his mouth to cover his cough. "I don't know what the fuck it is you're so mad about, alright? I offered to take the blame!"

England didn't dignify the question with a reply (because Alfred was an ungrateful little piss in the mud, Alfred had _attacked_ him, it was like the damn prat had known the British Empire was fraying at the edges, had known that it was only his armies that had kept his family together, and fuck, the boy didn't care if he tore their family apart, did he?). He swung for America's stomach, and America danced aside, a determined look in his eyes.

"Listen, can you put the stick down and talk _civilly_? Look England, I don't know what's gotten into you, but—"

England swung again, and America leaped into the air, avoiding the stick's trajectory.

"Fucking hell, England, would you just _stop_?"

But England didn't stop, because why should he? Why would he stop when _Alfred_ had ripped a chunk out of his arm with his carelessness? How pathetic would he be if he allowed this to just pass? No, he wasn't stopping until he wiped that smug look off his colony's face, until Alfred apologized for his stupidity, until Alfred learned his _place_. And so the stick danced about madly in his hands until he finally landed a hit on America's arm. He winced when he heard America yell—this yell was different than before, because this yell was punctuated by the crack of bone.

America fell forward, clutching his arm and letting out a primal scream.

And England stood there, wondering bitterly why putting America in his place didn't make him feel happy, wondering why he'd put in so much effort to teach the boy a lesson, when all it ever ended up being was waves and waves of guilt. Should he comfort Alfred, or—or did the boy deserve this? He was at a crossroads, and remembered—

"_There are many ways to rule, Angliya," Russia had said one night over tea, "You can be harsh, you can scare them into submission. You can be kind, you can persuade them to be loyal through your kindness. You can be indirect, you can demonstrate your military power abroad, and they will attribute the power to you, but never feel it themselves. You can be direct, you can demonstrate your military prowess at home, and they will cower at your presence." _

_Russia paused, letting his speech sink in, and then added, "But you cannot be indecisive, Angliya, that is not the trait of a good leader."_

"_You are no more than a barbarian," England snapped, "and I see no reason to listen to your diatribes."_

"_I may be a barbarian, but I am informed. You may be civilized, but you are confused. The choice has to be made, you cannot avoid it forever."_

_Russia had downed the rest of his tea then, and looked at England impassively. He did not understand how England had grown so large without knowing the basic tenants of leadership, and so he sat there, waiting, waiting..._

What would he choose? What _could_ he choose now? He'd already gone too far to be kind, he'd crossed the line long ago, and America would never accept his kindness _now_. The boy would only view it with a suspicious eye, because he was already labeled in Alfred's mind—he was horrible, disgusting, violent, and any kindness on his part would only be temporary, would only be seen as a tool of manipulation.

He didn't know when he'd lost it, when everything had to be so logical and rational and every step had to be planned like a chess game. And Russia was so good at the damn game, wasn't he? The fucking Soviets had won for nearly three decades in a row, until one of his colonies—Canada? America?—had provided him with a champion, and that had been the British Empire's only successful venture into chess.

It was wrong, but he was so far gone now, what was the point in going back?

"America..." he began, hesitant. He saw something in America's eyes—something that reminded him of Russia at his worst (and perhaps himself too, a voice in his mind echoed). England wondered if he should be terrified, but squashed the thought. The look only appeared momentarily anyway, a fleeting, whimsical existence.

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" America managed, a tense anger to his voice as he backed away.

And England shook his head, trying to clear his mind, trying to remember what Russia had said...

(There were so many paths he could take to victory, but which one would he choose, which one would he choose?)

—

"America, you're back? Alfred—" Canada's voice quickly switched to alarm, "What happened? You're—are you alright?"

"Hey, Matt!" America greeted with false cheer, "I'm—I'm fine! Just had a really long morning. Seriously, this damn place is like a bad luck charm or something. Makes all the wrong shit happen at the wrong time. Anyways, I need to take a shower, clean up a bit, so I guess I'll talk to you later—"

Canada saw through him, as he always did, and reached for America's shoulders, stopping him. "Alfred! Seriously, what happened to your arm?"

"England—" America muttered after a moment's hesitance, "Fuck, the guy's crazy. I mean, I just don't get it. What the fuck is he so angry about _now_? I tried to be comforting, didn't I? But he insists that I'm his colony or some shit like that, and then he gets mad every time I try to tell him he's wrong. He's so fucked up in the head I can't even _comprehend—_it's like he's taking drugs or he got some brain altering surgery or _something_."

Canada grasped America's limp arm in his hands and mumbled, "England did this? England, my god, he—" There was a hitch in Canada's voice, whether it was of anger or pity America couldn't tell.

"I...hey Canada, you shouldn't worry you know, it's gonna heal soon. I'd give it a couple hours, tops, and my arm'll be back to normal, so it's not that big of a deal."

Canada shook his head, bile rising in his throat, a symbol of his disgust. "My god, Alfred, this is—England is _disgusting_. I can't believe—actually, you know what, I can. England is a bastard, and I wish I could've—I wish he were dead." Canada seemed to freeze when he pronounced the last words, as though he couldn't believe he'd said them aloud.

America hesitated for a moment, confusion lining his face, and finally murmured, "Matt, don't say that, you're scaring me. I mean, between the two of us, you're supposed to be the sane one!" He chuckled bitterly then, placing his good arm around Canada's shoulders.

"I'm the one who's...well, I think I told you this before, but sometimes I get this sort of, this flash of something. I remember I got it a lot when Russia would come around, and after 9/11 too. And just a moment ago, I felt it come back again. Like I just had to...to hurt something to make myself feel better, to avenge my pain, and I almost couldn't stop myself. I know I promised you I'd try harder to stop myself from doing that again, but I just—England is—he's supposed to be a really close ally, you know? And you don't just attack people you're close to."

It was worse, America decided, worse because England wasn't _just_ a close ally the way Canada or Japan or Germany were. England was so much more, and yet he...

(There was something horribly wrong with the picture, and he wasn't sure what could be painted over to fix it.)

"Alfred," Canada began, letting his fingers cradle America's broken arm, "it's okay, it's fine. Let's just—let's just get some ice, alright? Your arm's not looking so good."

But America rambled on, ignoring Canada, "I'm fine. Don't worry about me, like I said, it'll heal soon. My anger's just—it's symbolic, you know? You don't attack your allies like that. You just don't—"

Canada didn't seem to hear him, and was already dragging him towards the kitchen (an entirely unfamiliar kitchen, America decided), where their ice was kept. His brother removed a large chunk of it from the freezer, found a cloth and wrapped the ice pack around America's arm.

"So what exactly were you doing out there anyway?" Canada asked as he finished his handiwork, "I mean, what led to all of _that_?"

"Oh," America muttered, looking weary, "I don't get any of it, but I remember going with England into the meeting room, and then there was this mini storm, and he got blown out of the room. He came back and he was _utterly_ crazy. He got into this messy argument with Russia because Russia's accusing me of breaking into the—the Soviet Union's general meeting area with Japan's suspicious-looking machine. So England insists on taking the blame for me _and_ on being utterly pissed at me for having to do so—I even told him not to, but does he listen? No!"

"Wait, Japan—Japan's machine? Was he implanting something in their meeting area or—"

"No, no, of course not!" America shook his head vigorously, and continued, "Like I said, there was a semi-blizzard, right? So Japan and England both got blown somewhere after it was over, and Japan was carrying this machine with him, and the remnants of it were left in the room, which I just happened to be in. Oh—that reminds me, I probably should've checked up on Japan, I got totally distracted with England, damn. And I should return his machine to him too..."

America sighed and pulled out the mess of wires from his jacket pocket. It actually looked rather...well, awesome, if it weren't for the amount of suspicion it had indirectly raised. America reached for the center of the mess, where there looked to be a manual.

"Hey Matt, look! It's actually not as broken as I thought. Most of the wires look intact, except for this one, and based on the labels on the wires it probably goes here."

Canada watched as America reattached multiple wires to the circuit board, and then reached for a switch. Nothing happened. "Damn. Maybe I missed this one—"

The screen lit to life.

"Fuck yeah, it worked on the second try!" America exclaimed, suddenly excited. In his excitement, the ice pack fell off his arm. Canada scowled and retrieved it from the floor, placing it back on America's arm.

"And just what in the world is this supposed to do?" Canada finally asked, incredulous.

"Um," America shrugged. "I wouldn't know, but maybe we can find out?"

He glanced at the attached LCD screen:

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

SpaceTimeTM (a teleportation device) v0.1.1  
(warnings) very much in beta, do not test on random people

(a) open up a log session  
(b) connect to world wide web  
(c) help

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

"Damn," America mumbled, "Damn it to hell and back—look at this!"

Canada leaned in to read the text, and his eyes widened. "A...teleportation device? Wait, is it even possible to build something like this?"

America shrugged. Well, technically it was probably not possible, but he definitely _could_ think of ways that it might be doable. For instance, Japan's machine could rip a hole at one end of the atmosphere, allow the subject to enter into a temporary holding zone, rip a hole at destination, and transfer the subject from the holding zone to the destination. Then there was the possibility of copying and reconstructing the subject at the destination...

And if this machine really did what it advertised, it could explain _a lot_.

"Hey, Canada, we were in Antarctica a few moments ago, remember? And now we're in some other place—somewhere in the general vicinity of...Russia, I'm guessing? That's why I thought we were in the meeting room when we weren't—we were somehow teleported, which means Japan's thing actually _worked_!"

Canada stared at America. "Wait, Alfred, what are you talking about? Since when were we ever in Antarctica at all? We were here for a world conference at _Russia's_!"

America gaped. "Are you serious? Wait." He stared at Canada, remembering how Russia had called them _capitalist pigs_ and England had in turn called Ivan a _communist bastard _and how Japan's machine was a _SpaceTime_ teleporter. "So let me get this straight—I'm still England's colony? And Russia's still a damn commie? What about you then—what're you?"

"I'm his colony too...what are you getting at, Alfred?"

"Can I throw a far-fetched theory at you?"

"Maybe?"

"See this? It calls itself a SpaceTime teleporter, which means there's the possibility I moved through time as well as space!"

"Alfred—you're saying you got teleported through—but how can you be sure this isn't just some fantasy? How can you be sure that the machine even works as advertised? Anyone can slap a name onto this, but that doesn't mean it actually _does_ anything."

"Well, I'm not absolutely _sure_, but how else do you explain the differences? I mean, I'm not a British colony as far as I remember, haven't been since 1776. Russia hasn't been communist for a couple decades as well. And I was also in Antarctica just a few minutes ago..."

Canada shook his head, disbelieving. Time travel? Antarctica? Was Alfred _crazy_? "Maybe we should look at this thing more. Try that help thing on the screen."

America flicked the switch closest to the "help" selection, and the screen flashed again.

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

(help)

This section is still under construction.

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

"Informative," America muttered sarcastically. Trust Japan to pay homage to a relic from the '90s. All it was missing was an animated gif...

"Alfred, if you did travel through time—what year are you from? I mean, it's 2010 here and—"

America made a face. "That's the part I'm confused about—it's 2010 as far as I remember too! But we were in Antarctica just an hour ago, and I am most certainly _not_ a British colony! God, what happened from 1776 onwards?"

Canada stared at him in disbelief. "You...ahh, I thought you hated talking about this...you...in 1787, you surrendered, remember? Then...then England came back and he was so _angry_, and, well..."

America met his brother's look of disbelief. "You know, Matt, this is starting to sound more and more like a fantasy story...I mean..." He glanced down at Japan's machine, eyes roaming over the name, ideas floating through his brain. Spacetime meant that the machine had entered the fourth dimension, but was it possible that it had penetrated some even higher dimension? America remembered joking to Japan once about parallel universes...

_("See Japan, you could start with a single universe, and any time a decision is made, a copy of the world is made, one for each different choice. And then—"_

"_Are you running your latest movie idea by me?"_

"_No, no, of course not! This one is for a video game!"_

"_Indeed."_

"_Right, right! But you could also start with a finite number of universes, with each of them being allowed to evolve independently of the others. Maybe in some of these worlds human life doesn't even start!"_

"_And we don't exist?"_

"_Well, maybe we would exist, but not as humans! We'd be whatever other species that happen to form nations. You know, I wonder if we exist in ant form too—like maybe those monstrous ant colonies have the concept of nationality too, and there's ant versions of us. That'd be so cool, Japan!"_

_Japan sighed._

"_What, what? You don't like my idea?"_

"_We're eating, America. And talking about ants makes me think of giant parasites that lay eggs in—"_

"_Eww, Japan! I wasn't talking about _those_ types of bugs! Geez, you just _had_ to bring that up, didn't you? Crap, Japan, how the hell am I supposed to eat the salmon roe now? They all look like parasitic eggs!" America made a retching noise and shoved the roe in Japan's direction._

_Japan shoved it back. "Let's just agree not to talk about ant nations anymore."_

_America nodded sagely. Then he suddenly grinned. "You wanna talk about cockroach nations instead?"__)_

_—  
_

America looked at Canada, hesitating. "Do you think—do you think it's possible that I got teleported into a different strand of reality?"

"_What?_"

"Like, you know, you've heard of the theory where every decision we make creates a parallel universe, right? So basically there'd be multiple universes, each just a different branch of the decision tree, and our point of divergence would be at my revolution. So maybe I got teleported into this parallel world where the differences start when I _lost_...well, this is totally crazy, isn't it?"

Canada looked skeptical. "Well...I've read about it in books...but really, it sounds fictional."

"Yeah well, there isn't a better explanation, is there? Especially not one that takes Japan's thing into account." America stared at the device resting snugly in his arms.

"Alright, so let's assume this machine did cause you to...teleport...here. Then you should be able to use it to get back as well, right?" _And hopefully bring the other Alfred—the real Alfred—back safely...wait, I'm not actually subscribing to his crazy theory, am I?_

"Only if I can get it to work..." America stared at it warily. "I mean, maybe we should contact Japan, ask him to at least read the manual to us or something."

"But how are you going to explain why you have this manual in Japanese you can't read?" Canada countered. "Besides, what if you're wrong? What if it _is_ something else? What if you lost your memory or—"

"But that theory is even crazier, Matt!" America protested, waving his good arm around dynamically, "If I lost my memory, then clearly someone planted memories in me, because I still remember stuff. It's just not the _right_ stuff, according to you and England and everyone else. Then that means...well, who the hell implanted memories in my mind? Someone would have to kidnap me and perform brain surgery on me and—well, how is this any less far-fetched?"

Canada snorted. "I'm very close to believing you just have an overactive imagination, or that this is some elaborate practical joke. That's how insane you sound right now, Alfred."

"I could say the same thing for all of you!" America grumbled. "I mean, I come out of this damn room, and England and Russia are tearing at each other's throats in a matter of seconds! Then Russia lets it slip casually that I'm a British colony—and England confirms it, like it was obvious. It just feels like some bastard went ahead and planned out an early April Fool's, and if it weren't for this damn machine..."

America sighed, looking down at the aforementioned machine. Half of him wanted to punch the damn thing that had turned him into a stranger in a strange land, but that would get him nowhere. Perhaps he should try option (b) for kicks and giggles, even though he was sure it would also end in an 'under construction' fiasco...

He was not prepared for it to actually _work_ and connect to the internet. Or at least, some version of the internet that he wasn't familiar with at all, because apparently Youtube didn't exist, and neither did Google, and...

"Hey Canada, just out of curiosity, what do you guys use as far as search engines go?"

"Search engines? You mean like Optical or Baidu?"

"_Baidu_? Are you shitting me? Oh man," America shook his head in amusement, "Baidu! Alright, so I'm guessing the British Empire didn't catch on well to this whole internet thing, did it?"

"What? Of course we did—I mean, Optical has more than three-quarters of the search engine share worldwide! Baidu is mostly used for...well, it's used in British North America as a form of protest, which is kind of ironic because Baidu itself censors like crazy in mainland China. But out here it doesn't do any of that, so the malcontents use it. They're protesting against Optical tweaking the results to suit the British government's purposes, which they say is just functional censorship."

"Damn," America mumbled, "A form of protest, huh?" He shook his head, tapping the url into the screen. The site that came up seemed like a typical search engine, but the logo was an image of the Union Jack ripped to shreds. Protest indeed.

But now that he could connect to the internet, could the same principles be applied to interlink parallel worlds? America looked back and forth between Canada and the machine, trying to think. If he could somehow reroute the wireless router to redirect to addresses from his universe, then he'd be able to use _his _world's internet, wouldn't he? All he had to do was feed the router data into the teleportation port, which would then (hopefully) be transmitted to a corresponding router in his world, which would then request data from _his_ world's network, which would then send it back through the teleportation port...

Well, it all made sense in theory, but in practice?

America reached for the wires, trying to decide how to connect them properly to recreate what was in his mind's eye.

He tried to keep himself from losing concentration by thinking of the email he would compose to Japan once everything was in working order. First he'd give an excited rant of his newest discoveries, and then—oh yes, he would make Japan nullify his debt for access to the inter-universe communication system! It was the perfect way to solve his latest debt-related woes. And once Japan was taken care of, he just had to think of something else to appease China...

It was so, so perfect!

Unfortunately, the moment was ruined when his stomach rumbled. "Maaatt, I'm hungry."

Canada groaned.

—

The refrigerator door was open. Canada was trying to hold his breath to avoid the smell of England's cooking, which was neatly lined up in plastic containers, color-coded by day. It was supposed to be the food supply of everyone for the next week. Not that, of course, anyone would actually touch them.

In fact, on the day of their arrival, Hong Kong had taken one whiff of the contents and announced, "There is contaminated stinky tofu in the upper compartment of the fridge. I suggest that we tape it off and label it as a nuclear waste zone." India had giggled in amusement, and the two of them took to the stove with great speed. In an hour's time, they'd whipped up a separate supply, their _real_ supply of food, which was not-so-neatly strewn in the compartment below England's. Canada grabbed two boxes of their cooking efforts and motioned for America to join him.

"Not England's food, huh?" America asked, grinning.

Canada let out a bitter laugh. "Very far from English indeed."

They ate in silence for a while, avoiding each other's gaze. Eventually America broke the silence with a confession of sorts: "Matt, I...uh, I almost forgot to tell you, but England's gonna be pretty mad at you when he comes back. I...I suppose it was sort of my fault. An accident, of sorts."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, if you're going along with my alternate realities theory, then in my world, first of all, neither of us are his colonies anymore. And in recent months you called England my lapdog. To his face. You were rubbing it in his face over some poll or something..."

"Wait, _what_?"

"And so yeah, he was pretty pissed and ranted at me for a whole damn week, like some overzealous drama queen. It didn't help that France and Germany just _had_ to agree with you. And so, well, today, I kinda accidentally reminded the England in your world of that, and when he didn't know what I was talking about, I...uh...I told him."

"Germany and France?" Canada asked, incredulous, "The two of them actually agreed on something?"

"Yeah, well, they pretty much agree on everything—oh, well, maybe not here, huh?" America sighed, recalling how France and Germany had—in _unison—_jeered that England was a "poor, poor American fool." Why they insisted on constantly riling England up America just didn't get. Or actually, he supposed he did—they wanted England to go back to Europe, to stop with the Euroscepticism, to go along with their policies and stop _scowling_ all the damn time.

_("__Angleterre__, it would do you some good to stop showing __Etats-Unis__ off to us, we're not impressed that he's your ally, and we're not intimidated by you because of him. You're in Europe, act European for once, would you? Stop acting like an offshoot of your former colony."_

_Germany nodded his assent; he was always the less vocal of the duo._

"_I'm not showing him off—for heaven's sake, he's not even—"_

"_I beg to differ, England," Germany began, "Every time the __Europäische Union__ enacts some policy that is disagreeable for you, you quickly turn to reevaluating your relationship with America, as if you're pushing the idea that you have other alliances, better alliances in our faces. We are not blind, England."_

"_Also," France cut in, "the two of us are most tired of being your marriage counselors."_

"_Who the fuck said I needed marriage counseling?")_

"Alfred..."

"Um," America gave Canada a sheepish grin. "Well, yeah. Sorry?"

"So you told him that I said that he was your...uh..."

"Right. But I didn't know! I thought he'd just temporarily forgotten or something! I mean, wow, it's gotta suck being his colony, especially since he doesn't seem chill _at all_."

"No," Canada grumbled, "he's about as far from 'chill' as you can get."

"So, uh, if you want, you can blame it on me, alright? I mean, just say I was lying or something, to get him off your case. It's kinda the truth too, right?" And if England, if _this_ England tried to attack him again, he was going to fight back for real. He'd been hesitant before, because he was afraid of hurting England, but this England, this one could go to hell for all that he cared.

"Well, he won't believe me, and..."

"What if I tell him? That, you know, I was lying 'cause I was angry at you and wanted to get you in trouble or something like that?"

"Forget it, Alfred," Canada muttered, wringing his hands. If America told the truth, there was no doubt that England would find some excuse to attack him again, and Canada was _not_ going to allow that to happen. Even if America was crazy fast at healing—two hours after the incident and his arm had renewed itself entirely, cracks fused together and torn ligaments healed over, Canada didn't want to take the chance. "I'll figure it out when he comes back. Half the times he doesn't even remember I exist in the first place, except for when he needs me to spy on Russia or some crap like that."

America grinned brightly, _much too brightly_. "Yeah, so why don't you make your existence memorable for him? You know, plan a rebellion or something."

"Yeah, as if it's that easy to just _rebel_."

"Hey, I'm sure it's not so bad. You know a good chunk of England's military secrets, right? So you should start something in your lands first, like a riot of sorts. Then you should send your boats along to England's coast, do a nice little one-eighty and stage an invasion of the _home islands_. He'll be so fucking shocked he won't know what's coming to him and—"

"You're insane. What makes you think I have the resources to invade England?"

"Are you kidding me? Don't you have oil sands all over the place? You could tell England, 'Hey, look, fuck you, you're not getting any oil from me.' and he'd pretty much have to acquiesce to all of your demands. Not that—well—" He stopped, feeling slightly uncomfortable with his own set of advice. He wouldn't normally be telling Canada all this, certainly not if he were back in his own world, where he depended very much on oil from up north and where it was simply best not to give anyone any ideas...

"Yes, then he sends a bunch of British _bastards_ to my place to kill me, no, I don't think this is a viable plan at all, Alfred!"

"Aw, come on! There's plenty of ways you could kick him out of your land. I could help, for one, I've got experience in this one! See, the first thing we could do is—"

"_You_ lost your little revolt!"

"In your world, sure, but not in mine!" America grinned cheekily, and he looked at Canada with amusement. "The two of us together would be unstoppable! We could build the North American Fortress of Doom and send England packing!" As America spoke, he lifted the naan he'd been munching on into the air, and the curry he'd dipped it in flew everywhere, large globs of it landing in Canada's hair.

"America!" Canada yelled, fingering the sticky mess on his head. But then America was laughing, and it was uproarious, infectious, and Canada felt his annoyance dissipate into muffled chuckling. His brother was far too happy for someone whose arm had just been broken...

—

Canada still could not believe America had suggested it. _Spy_ on England? Was his brother crazy? This could not end well, and he was an idiot for even _considering_. "If we're gonna fight him, then we need to know the enemy," his brother had said. Canada's protests that they already _knew_ England were ignored, and now he found himself crouching under a windowsill, straining his ears to hear the commotion in the meeting room. America was sitting next to him, studying Japan's machine.

Russia's light drawl floated through the walls. "I'd like England to explain exactly why both he and _Amerika_ were in our general meeting area. Let's let him have the stage, shall we?"

"If I'm on trial, who _exactly_ is serving as the jury?" England.

Canada wondered why he could _hear_ Russia smiling. "Why, everyone here, of course."

"What?" England snapped, "A quarter of everyone here are _your_ colonies. Do you really think I'm going to allow such a biased vote to pass?"

"If you'd wanted to, you could've brought your colonies as well, _Angliya_. Why you chose not to is hardly my fault."

Canada glanced at America, who had raised an eyebrow to denote his confusion. "Hey Canada," America whispered, "what happens if England loses the trial?"

"No idea," Canada whispered back, "But he's got a lot of allies in that room too, so he might be able to weather a quarter of the vote going to Russia."

They strained their ears again as England began his speech. "First of all, I was never in your meeting area. I hope everyone here understands that I would never lower myself to that level. As for America, I do think Russia knows best. After all, Russia was the one who offered him drugs, drugs that blurred his memory and sense of time and place. So are we to blame the dealer or the victim? I think it's only right—"

"_Angliya, _where is your evidence that I've sold _Amerika_ anything?"

"Evidence?" England gave a sharp laugh. "You need only take one look at America to see that he's lost his mind. The evidence is quite clear in itself. If you need me to bring him here—"

"So we are just supposed to take your word for it? How do you know that the dealer wasn't someone else?"

"I seem to recall that you were the one who proclaimed that America would much prefer to spend time with the Soviet Union than with me. If the dealer wasn't _you_, then why would you make such a statement, as if you could read his mind?"

Russia made a noise of disgust. "That is not enough evidence that I've sold _Amerika_ anything."

"Then you also do not have enough evidence to accuse America of doing anything in your meeting area."

The two of them traded insults for a while, which Canada tuned out. Instead, he thought back to America's earlier question. What _would_ happen if England lost the trial? He had a feeling England would end up paying large amounts of money to Russia, money that he'd probably funnel in through taxing America. Except this was actually the most ideal situation—what if England had to do something other than pay? What if—

"Let's count the votes, shall we?"

"Shit, that was a fast trial." America mumbled, eyebrows furrowing.

"Let's see, I count 14 votes that find you to be at fault and 13 that don't. Would you like to confirm, _Angliya_?" There was a light tilt to Russia's voice.

"These 14 votes—exactly who the hell are they—"

"Now, you should know that these votes are supposed to remain anonymous. We wouldn't want you to intimidate them to vote one way or another, would we?" Canada thought he heard Russia chuckle.

"Wait, did England just lose? By _one_ vote?" America tugged insistently on Canada's sleeve, pulling him up.

And once again, Canada wasn't sure what was happening anymore, because he suddenly found himself being dragged by America, who was muttering something about "fucking former soviet states" and "Russia doesn't get to kick England's ass" and "that's our job". And of course, Canada was even more mortified when he discovered that they were standing two feet from the entrance to the meeting area.

"Damnit, Alfred, what are you _doing_? You know we can't go in there—"

America wasn't listening to him, and two strides later, the entrance door was open and everyone was staring at them.

"You've overlooked two members of the jury," America announced, gesturing to himself and his brother. Canada thought the grin on America's face was nothing short of madness, and that the look of horror England's face matched it.

America held out his hand insistently in front of Switzerland, who had been ripping out sheets of notebook paper for everyone to scribble their votes on. "So," America continued, as if nothing had happened, "give me and my brother here some ballots."

England was right about the drugs, Canada decided. America was utterly and entirely _mad_, parallel universes be damned.

* * *

**notes:**

- Canada has the world's 2nd largest oil reserves, and the US imports more of its oil from Canada than any other nation.  
- The USSR seriously dominated chess—from 1948 to 1972, then a Bobby Fischer break of three years, and it was back to Soviet dominance again until the USSR ended.  
- The UK is one of the most Eurosceptic countries, along with Latvia and Hungary.

All reviews are greatly appreciated! This one was really hard to write. :(


	5. clear as day : our world

**chapter five**

**

* * *

**

England was halfway through undoing his pants when he realized something—America's skin felt clammy and cold against his hands, like he'd gotten nothing out of their entire exchange, no passion, no feeling, no _nothing_. And despite England's demands, he had not kissed England back, and other than a few weak protests, America had been entirely non-responsive. Sure, this was a roleplay, and maybe America-the-colony would've been as submissive as possible, but couldn't Alfred have responded a bit more than a goddamn dead fish?

England wondered vaguely if the nation was still feeling sick—had the Antarctican weather really gotten to him that much? He heaved himself up, hoping that his own weight wouldn't cause America to retch.

"Stop..." There it was again, a muffled protest that was a cross between engineered and genuine. Goddamn it, England realized, they really needed a safe word, because if America needed to get up to puke or something, England did not want to be his plastic bag.

"America," he whispered, "Are you quite alright?"

America looked dazed—he opened his mouth and shut it, as if he was going to say something, but remained mute. England clambered off the bed, concerned, and placed a hand on America's forehead. "You're not running up a fever, are you, Alfred?" But America's forehead felt just as cold as the rest of him, so that couldn't have been it...

Neither of them were prepared for the sharp rap on the door.

"Who is it?" England shouted, wondering if one of the other designated occupants of their room had finally returned.

There was a hesitance from the other end, until a voice finally echoed in, "England, this is Japan. I have urgent business I need to discuss with America. And with you as well, I suppose."

"Alright, alright," England grumbled, slightly distressed at his state of dress, "Just give us a moment!" He desperately fumbled to redo his pants, shooting the doorknob a few nervous glances. At least the door was locked, he thought, and even if it wasn't, at least Japan was polite enough to _knock_. England glanced at America, who had finally sat up, and shook his head. What could Japan possibly want to discuss that he couldn't have mentioned _earlier_? Was Japan coming by to ask America for support on that recent boat incident with China? Or perhaps that wasn't "urgent" enough, perhaps this had something to do with North Korea? England sighed, reaching for the doorknob.

Japan glanced between the two of them, taking in their disheveled states, and finally said, "England, do you have a moment to spare?"

England nodded hesitantly, eyebrows knit in confusion. Hadn't Japan just asked for America a moment ago?

—

"I thought," England said as they ambled down the hallway to Japan's room, "you wanted to speak with America?"

Japan coughed, clearing his throat. "I did, but I realized, given the circumstances, that you might be of more help."

England had no idea what 'the circumstances' were, but decided to leave the matter be. Japan had always been cryptic, and it was usually better to let the nation reveal things at his own pace. Attempting to squeeze information from a reluctant Japan was like getting that last bit of toothpaste, difficult and hardly worth the trouble.

Once they reached Japan's room, Japan gestured for England to sit on his bed (because that was all they had in the way of furniture), and wordlessly pulled out his laptop, placing it in England's hands. He pointed at the screen and said, "America wrote this email a few minutes ago. I...I think it's easiest if you just read it."

England glanced down at the screen, eyes widening as he took each word in.

"How is this..." England began, feeling at a loss for words, "...How can you be sure it's even possible?"

"Well," Japan conceded, "that's actually why I brought you here instead of America. I wanted to ask you—have you noticed anything odd about him today? I wasn't observing him very much, I must admit, and since you are staying in the same room as him, I thought your opinions would be more useful."

Parallel universes—British colonies—something _odd_? America had acted beyond odd today, America had—England closed his eyes, suddenly sick with realization. The puzzle pieces had all fallen in place—this was why America had been acting oddly, _this_ was why. It was no wonder America had felt so clammy and cold, it was no wonder America had protested all throughout England's farcical attempts at seduction. Because _fuck_, when England had thought it was all just a game, America had thought it was _real_. America had thought he was the British Empire, so debased and so immoral that he would turn to _rape_ in times of need.

(And he had, hadn't he? Once upon a time, when the times were different, when he still sailed the high seas...)

And America had protested too—America had yelled, had screamed, and England had thought it was all just a fucking _game_.

"England," Japan began, placing a hand on England's shoulder.

"Goddamnit," England mumbled weakly, "I need—I need to leave." And he stood, feeling dizzy and numb and shell-shocked all at once. What had he been thinking? No, scratch that, _had_ he been thinking at all? Listening to France, _believing_ France...

"Wait, England!" Japan slid in front of the door with urgency, blocking England's hasty exit, and asked, "Did something happen? America—he—is this theory right? Because if it is right, then we need to fix this, this is important, I need to do something about—"

England locked eyes with Japan for a moment before looking away, feeling embarrassment and shame welling up inside him. "Alfred..." he began wearily, "he is so goddamn _right_ it hurts." Then, after an awkward pause where England stared at the floor and Japan stared at some invisible point above England's head, he added, "I think I'll be—I think I'll need your laptop, Japan. America deserves to know about this, some explanation at the very least."

Japan found his voice again, and said, "Certainly, he does. I—I suppose we should head over there right now."

—

_Sometimes you'll hear a tale of fear, resentment, and loathing, and you will think, "How wonderful it would be if these people had never been born." Because, you tell yourself, some people are born angry, and they cannot be calmed._

America knew that the powerhouse behind the Soviet Union—Russia—had been nursing varying degrees of _something_ for decades. Anti-social disorder? Narcissim? Depression? He said nothing, because it was impolite to comment on a nation's mental state, especially when you weren't even a nation. And besides, mental illness was essentially a prerequisite for empires, and America was sure that if he'd been alive to see Rome or China in their heyday, neither would've been spared the symptoms.

He'd asked Lithuania once if Russia was born that way, born paranoid, cold, and calculating. Lithuania had glanced around skittishly before mumbling that he wasn't sure, but that he didn't think it was possible for a nation to be _born that way_. Then Lithuania had turned the question on him—did America think _England_ was born that way?

America knew little about England's birth, and perhaps it was for the better, as he couldn't imagine the Empire as a child, couldn't imagine England acting the way _children_ did. He'd tried once, and ended up with some bitter, repressed version of Sealand in his mind, complete with the thick eyebrows and wayward smile. But, unlike Sealand, who could spend hours doing jumping jacks on his bed until the springs gave away, imaginary-child-England acted no differently from adult-England. And so he couldn't say—had England been born that way or had he wandered there while being egged on by his neighbors?

Sometimes he saw bits of compassion and tenderness mixed in with the paranoia—and today—

Today had been a whirlwind.

The Empire was a weird creature, because America couldn't see what possessed England to suddenly hover over him in concern, to feel his forehead for fever. If England really wanted to have his way with him, any concern over his physical well-being should be secondary. The look of concern on the Empire's face had been _so_ foreign—England had rarely been able to reveal that part of himself for more than a fleeting moment.

America supposed that he should be happy, relieved even, but he couldn't help but feel there was something more to all of this—because he felt like he was walking on eggshells, and that any moment now, England would come back and begin where he'd left off...

He needed a wash, America decided, and stumbled into a nearby restroom. He slid to the nearest sink, twisted the faucet on, and let the cold water run down his face. Then he spat into the sink—once, twice—and gurgled water from the tap. There was a towel dispenser to his right, and he jostled with it, pulling out a sheet to wipe his mouth with. He wiped and wiped, trying to remove the lingering taste of England on his lips, because it was everywhere, it was fucking _everywhere_. Then the faucet was on again, and he was below it, the cycle repeating, until he miscalculated and choked on the running liquid, and lurched forward with a wave of disgust.

"_Amerika_, I did not expect to find you here."

America jumped, whirling around, because the voice was _Russia's_. On top of everything that had happened today, he really, really didn't need the Soviet Union breathing down his neck.

Russia did not seem phased by his reaction. Instead, the nation walked over to the nearest urinal and continued smoothly, "So, _Amerika_, have you seen your brother anywhere? I wish to speak with him."

"My brother?" America squeaked, confused. Did Russia mean England or Canada? America hardly considered England to be an older sibling, even if England had often proclaimed thus, so it had to be his northern neighbor. "What—what the hell do you want from Canada?"

Then he heard Russia fumbling with his pants, presumably to pee, and he cringed, trying to keep his own eyes focused on the sink. What kind of maniac made conversation while doing his business at a urinal? Hadn't Russia ever been taught restroom etiquette?

"I am buying pigs from him," Russia said thoughtfully, "and I thought I should confirm that what I have ordered will arrive. You buy his pigs a lot too, do you not?"

"Ah, yeah...?" America continued to the let the water run, and wondered what the hell Russia meant by 'buying pigs'. Obviously it wasn't literal, because Russia had never traded with any of them Anglophone bastards, ever. So these 'pigs' must've represented something metaphorical—but what 'pigs' could Russia possibly buy from Canada? Capitalist pigs? Communist pigs? Pigs in a blanket? Pig Latin? Obese bourgeois Westerners? America really couldn't think of any other pig-related things that Russia could be alluding to. That, and the presence of the large nation was bothering him to no end—what if England somehow walked in on them conversing? What if Russia lived up to Lithuania's horrific tales?

"He must be in hiding, correct? After that humiliating defeat in junior hockey...your poor brother was done in by his overconfidence," Russia said gleefully, and America shuddered when he realized that the nation had sidled up to the nearest sink to wash his hands.

America snapped his own faucet shut, and mumbled incoherently, "I...I need to go. Uh, looking for something. Yeah." He made a hasty exit, taking wide steps out of the restroom, almost breaking into a run. He needed to warn Canada, to let his brother know that the Soviet Union was about to pay him a visit to buy pigs. Perhaps Canada would have a clearer idea of what Russia meant to by that; his brother had always been better at reading allusions.

Unfortunately, as he began his trek towards Canada's room, he caught a glimpse of England and Japan.

_Fuck_.

He tried to duck into a different hallway, but it was too late—Japan was waving to him, saying, "Ah, America, we were looking for you."

"Oh...you were?" he hesitantly replied. Then, feeling emboldened by Japan's presence (England wouldn't do anything when Japan was there, because around Japan he had to be civil, had to keep up appearances), he chanced a glance at England. The Empire wasn't looking at him at all—instead, the look on the nation's face seemed to mirror his own, worried and hesitant. What was up with that?

Japan nodded and said, "We have some important things to explain. It's probably best if I start at the beginning...Would you mind coming with us to my room?"

"Actually," England cut in, looking sheepish, "Before we go, I just wanted to...apologize. Alfred, uh, well, I very much owe you an apology, um, for my earlier actions today...I was not aware of the circumstances and I suppose...Kiku will explain the rest."

"Oh." America managed to eek out in reply, equally uncomfortable with the territory they were now heading towards. Why the _hell_ was England apologizing? He didn't need to apologize for his actions, he...couldn't he just do whatever he damn well pleased?

—

America stared at Japan's laptop glumly, trying to ignore England's presence, because something was definitely not well there. The email was supposed to be written by 'America', and yet he had never recalled writing any emails to Japan. And then there was the message itself—parallel worlds? Alternate histories?

He suddenly recalled the alternate history books he'd read in voracious quantities after every war, every moment of bitterness, pain, and strife. "Shaky New State: What If The French Had Helped Earlier?"—a novel on him winning the revolution, the resulting decline of the British Empire decades later, the rise of the French Napoleonic Empire, and the following 'Great Game' between France and Japan. "The Brave New World Alliance"—a novella on an alternate past during which America and Russia had become close allies, and the pair, being very much anti-imperalistic, had fought war after war against the British and Spanish empires...The concept was cool, but the likelihood of it reaching anywhere outside the recesses of fiction was laughable.

(Because even though playing with "what-ifs" was a dangerous game, it gave him _hope_, a matter more worthy than reality.)

"So..." he managed, "how is this even possible? I mean, I don't...are there really parallel universes? I-I'm not a colony anymore?"

"No," Japan confirmed, "no, you're not. You haven't been for multiple centuries by now."

"So this other me—I'm...my own sovereign state? And he wants Canada to—to declare war? On England?" America's facial expression looked at-once shocked, excited, and afraid. He suddenly realized that this was horribly awkward, because England was standing right next to Japan _staring_ at him and he was talking about _declaring war_. It was unnerving, but just what was he supposed to say? It didn't feel right to talk about rebellion when England was sitting in the same room. Even if he wasn't a colony in this world, and England didn't have the right to care about what America said here, he couldn't throw away centuries of history and practice just like _that_.

"America, isn't this—is this not what you want?" England asked.

"I—well, yeah, I guess it is. It's just that—what was he thinking? If he got teleported into my world recently, he doesn't know a thing about my military situation, my political situation, and yet he's declaring war! What am I going to do if everything gets fixed and I have to go back there, now that he's gotten me embroiled in a war I'm not ready for? I don't even—"

"You should calm down," England gave him an appraising look. "Didn't you say earlier that your economy is well-off? And that you've got a gold rush going on and that this other England's economy is the one that's failing? I'd presume that you are very much ready for a war. Besides, how do you know your brother will agree to the war? Maybe it'll just be a series of short-lived riots in the streets."

"Well, if Canada agrees, then..." America fell silent, looking lost in thought. Was Canada still unhappy? He'd thought that by now his brother would've gotten over England's transgression, and that America would've been the one still angry and hurt and gung-ho about pinning England's head to a platter. But somehow, looking at this other England from this other world—an image of what their England could've been—it was odd, unnerving, and America didn't know quite what to conclude from it.

"Then what?" Japan prompted.

America sighed. "Well, Canada's probably angry because of me. I kind of...said some things I probably shouldn't have..."

"I'm not sure I follow," Japan said, "Canada is angry because of you but wants to wage war with England instead?"

"Oh, no," America mumbled, looking slightly uncomfortable, "He...I said some things to England, and Canada's mad because...it's because of something England did..."

"Right." England saved him from finishing, suddenly recalling a particular point of contention he'd had with Canada centuries ago, when Canada had first been transferred to him from France. Canada rarely spoke of the Durham Report or the Lower Canada rebellions nowadays, of course, but very once in a while, when Canada felt "aligned with Quebec", as America had put it, he would send England nasty glares and quote rejoinders from the poem 'Speak White'. This Canada from the other world could've been much angrier—perhaps he'd graduated from muted glaring to open rebellion.

"And, well," America looked away and continued, "I don't have the right...I suppose I'm just not ready for this." He cradled his head in his hands, realizing he was getting a headache. "Not personally ready," he added. Then he looked up at England. "You don't...you don't seem to care that we're talking about staging a war...against you?"

There was a moment of silence, during which America thought perhaps he'd really hit a nerve. He shuddered, trying to contain his fear. This England wasn't like his, right? There was no thoughtless rage, no daily routine of roulette with Russia, no insane weaponry waving about the air, nothing that would drive a sane man to the reefs, and what had happened earlier that morning had just been a misunderstanding. A stressful misunderstanding.

England shrugged. "That was centuries ago for me. I think we've more than gotten over our past differences." And they had, hadn't they? It was almost funny to think they'd become allies, close allies even, years later. But perhaps their linguistic and cultural unity had mattered more in the long run than any short-term squabbles, or, as Alfred had put it on that one rickety old pirate ship in the late 1850s, _"Blood is thicker than water, right, England?"_

"Oh, right, uh, that makes sense..."

England nodded, stiff, as he knew exactly why it 'made sense'. "Once again," he began, hoping he could remedy the situation, "for my actions this afternoon, I must apologize. I understand that it must've been quite the...unfortunate surprise. And, well, I hope we can start afresh, and put past misunderstandings behind us."

America bobbed his head in agreement, but refused to meet England's eyes. "Um, yeah. It was a—a misunderstanding, that's all."

"In any case," England mumbled, a tired smile tugging at his lips, "the other you is quite the pest. If he has his eyes set on rebellion, I'm sure it won't matter what Canada's opinions are—he'll still make sure to drag his brother into the center of the chaos. And since we have no control over his actions, it's best not to worry about them. Unless we are able to get into contact with Alfred?" England glanced at Japan with hopeful eyes.

"Well," Japan sighed. "I haven't exactly tested anything that America recommended, so not quite yet. I suppose this means we should split our tasks—I'll try to figure out this new communication protocol and the two of you—" he glanced at both of them briefly "—well, England, you should probably help America figure out his...politics."

England nodded. "I certainly will. But if I were to stay with him, just how long do you think my boss would leave me be before thinking that something is rotten in the house of America?"

"Well," Japan began slowly, "I don't understand why your boss would think things are rotting—perhaps he will think you are refreshing your Special Relationship?"

America's eyes widened comically at Japan's choice of words—'_Special_ Relationship'? As far as he remembered, the term had been used sarcastically to refer to foreign relations (or the lack thereof) between the United Kingdom and the Soviet Union, but it was clear that England's relationship with this other version of him was nothing like that.

England just snorted and said, "Look, it's not that simple, alright? If my boss suspects something's off, or if _America's _boss suspects something is off, we'll have quite the situation on our hands. We need a backup plan, in case I am unable to be by his side. And the goddamn prat left such a mess. I mean, fuck it, he has this way of worming his nose into _everybody's _business, and—Japan, think about it—he's wedged himself between North Korea, South Korea, Israel, Palestine—I could go on and on, but his relationship with the entire damn _world_ in no way _simple_. For his own safety, we need to...well, we need a backup plan."

"I think," Japan mumbled, "it's best if we involve as few nations as possible. You just need to spin this to your boss as a matter of national security. Besides, don't you _want_ to stay with him? This should not be too difficult, I believe."

Yes, England did _want_ to stay with America.

But his boss would almost certainly not be excited about him shirking his duties and taking an extended vacation in Alfred's land. His boss had bore witness to the drama roaring across the Atlantic over the past few months, and although the man had made a point of encouraging England to make up with America (which he'd actually been attempting today, and look where that got him!), he'd also encouraged England to...well, to _not_ be hung up about America's insensitivity.

The last eight years had been a never-ending whirlwind of tension, accusations, and how-to-best-label-our-relationship drama. (Facebook had made things worse—when America changed his relationship status to "it's complicated", England had spent a good few weeks stewing over the implications.) Especially over the last few months, what with all the rumors he'd heard floating across the pond, the unending arguments that resulted, his own _fucking_ insecurities—and now the alliance with France, which he didn't even know how America would react once he came back.

England being England, remembered all the worst moments most clearly—

_A rumor (always this): "America is thinking of cooling the special relationship."_

_A newspaper editorial (one of his very own): "No, of course England doesn't mind if America wants to meet up with other countries, but—"_

_A confrontation: "You damn git! What the hell is this about?"_

_An excuse: "It's nothing, England! I just...well, I need to fix my foreign policy, don't you see? My new boss, he wants me to get along better with other nations—"_

_An acrid accusation: "Yes, I can see that! But you—this damn poll of yours! You voted for Canada as your favorite foreign nation!"_

_A non-apology: "Oh, that poll! Come on, England! We're neighbors—we trade together all the time! I mean, we like each other like brothers do—this doesn't have anything to do with you and me!"_

_A rebuttal: "It's got everything to do with us! If you think you can just use me—"_

_A confused protest: "I'm not using you! I'd help you matter what, you know that! I just need to—well, I need everyone to actually like me again, you know?"_

_An exaggeration of sorts: "That doesn't mean you have to flirt with every other nation!"_

_A denial: "It's not flirting—I'm just being friendly! Why do you and your newspapers insist on calling it flirting? And have I told you you nations are totally nuts? Why are you trying to statistically calculate my ...relations with each of you? This stuff can't just be ranked! Sheesh, the poll says you're like...3 percent lower than Canada. Three percent! What the fuck does that even mean?"_

_A heated glare: "Do you have any idea what Canada said to me? He was mocking me!"_

_A raised eyebrow of disbelief: "Canada mocked you?"_

_A snarl: "I'm not your fucking lapdog, America! To think he had the nerve to call me that, just because he hadn't entered the fucking war that you lied about to get me in—"_

_A correction: "It was my boss, not me!"_

_A wonderfully sarcastic imitation: "—'Oh, England, after all you did for America, he still likes me more!'"_

_A protest of a most rambunctious nature: "Goddamnit, England! Didn't I just tell you not to take those polls seriously? I don't even know what that 3% difference is supposed to mean! It's probably statistically insignificant! Why can't you trust me over some damn poll?"_

_An angry tirade: "You fucking dolt! What makes you think I'm going to believe you after all your bullshitting?"_

_An oblivious denial: "What? But that was my boss—I was lied to too! I didn't know, England!"_

_An apology of sorts: "—okay, okay England, I'm sorry, alright? What more do you want me to do? What's done is done! England! England! Wait, come back!"_

"England," Japan cut in then, hoping to salvage the conversation from turning into yet another England-silently-fumes-about-America session (at least, he thought ruefully, England wasn't drunk), "America was a busybody, yes, but I'm sure we can manage without him for a few weeks."

"Right," England quickly agreed, hoping that America wasn't paying much attention to the storm of emotions on his face. "I think we need to loop Canada into this. We could potentially call on him for help at some point."

"But England," Japan protested, "you know it's best to keep this quiet. If too many people know—well—it could be really bad. America could get attacked."

"Oh for heaven's sake, I'm not professing that we tell everyone! _Canada_, for one, is not going attack his brother!"

"Canada?" America asked, hesitant, "I talked to him a bit earlier—he—" _he seemed a lot more nonchalant _"—do we get along?" He was starting to think that the brashness of this other America could've ruined any resemblance of a reasonable foreign policy. And Canada seemed more than content to send him off with England, _alone_..._but wait, that's because you aren't colonies anymore! England respects you, trusts you to lead meetings—_

"Hmph," England groused, "the two of you have been getting along _swimmingly_." Too well, he might add, despite their numerous differences over the last decade (mainly over that war, that damned, damned war England couldn't believe he'd agreed to). Since the election of America's latest boss, the two were constantly in and out of each other's houses, all old unhappiness wiped away without a second thought. It didn't help that they were so close to each other geographically and could _afford_ daily visits in their current economy.

Japan, noticing that England was zoning out _again_, quickly asked, "So England, do you think we can convince Canada to stand in for America while he's gone?" This he was skeptical of, for he distinctly remembered that Canada was not excited about being mistaken for America, and having to purposefully _pretend_ to be the other nation might just be crossing the line...

"Well, that could work, I suppose, assuming that Matthew agrees to it." Which, England thought, was one big assumption.

Japan nodded. If they could keep it between the four of them, no one else would have to know, and no one else would be glaring daggers at Japan anytime soon. Besides, Japan thought, this new America certainly looked more responsible and less spend-thrifty, so maybe he was actually doing _everyone _a favor! "I'm sure the three of you can work together and figure something out. I'll try to make this all end soon...I'm very sorry for causing so much trouble."

"It'd better end soon," England grumbled, rubbing at his temples. He wanted _his_ America back.

_Although, _something in his mind added, _this one certainly is more respectful and humble and nice and—_

—_wrong. This America was—_

—

This was not supposed to be happening, China thought. He was supposed to be enjoying a quiet evening—well, as quiet of an evening as you could have with four nations to a room in _Antarctica_, but this_—_he was almost certainly _not_ supposed to be receiving news about _North Korea_.

He pulled out his phone, because he was the only one who had North Korea's number, and dialed. He decided to skip the usual greetings and get straight to the point. It rather sucked that North Korea did not trust him enough to tell him a single damn thing _first _these days, and just had to act like some spoiled brat—whatever had happened to respecting one's elders?

"So, would you like to explain to me exactly _what_ are you doing, _Caoxian_?" Okay, and maybe North Korea would trust him even less the more he used that kind of tone, but...

"I am merely fulfilling your...accusations, China. I do not appreciate them, but am fulfilling them nonetheless." Click.

What the _hell_ was she talking about?

—

England had been watching America walk. There was something about the nation's gait—cautious, almost tingling with nervous energy—that felt jarring to England. Where his America would take confident strides, this one would take smaller, calculated steps. Where his America would need a wide berth while walking (he had a tendency to swing his arms about like a broken windmill), this one aimed to take up as little room as possible, keeping his arms tucked in tightly.

"America." He placed his hand on the nation's shoulders, watching in worry as America seemed to shrink away at the touch.

"So, um, you're...helping me, right?" America glanced nervously around the room, as if looking for something.

England nodded, and tried to give the nation's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I am, I am. But I can only help you so much—every nation has secrets that they don't reveal to even their closest allies. I can only offer you a foreign perspective into your domestic troubles."

"Domestic troubles? Are my people unhappy...?"

The fear on America's face earlier had faded now that he was concentrating on understanding the politics of his new country, and England felt better.

"Your people," he began, "are rather polarized nowadays. We—the rest of us countries, that is—generally like your boss. In fact, he often has higher ratings in our countries than he does with your people. Because of this, in your midterm elections, they..."

England let his mouth run on autopilot—he was lucky his newspapers had written enough 'special reports' on American politics that he could spout back the basics without thinking. This gave him more time to _observe—_well, he didn't mean to _stare_ at America—he was supposed to be helping, not making the other nation more uncomfortable, but—

—he wanted to know, he _had_ to know—

"Um, so, what about these elections?"

"Right, midterm elections." England cleared his throat. "Your country ousted one of the parties—your boss's party—from holding the majority in your lower house. Like I said, your people are polarized—and they've only gotten more and more so over the last decade."

"My...lower house? So the House of Commons—"

"No, you call it the House of Representatives—"

England let his mouth go on autopilot again: "...your people are very split over many matters, and especially so on health care...your debt is in the trillions, most of it to China and Japan...no guarantee they'll keep buying your bonds though...unemployment hasn't gone down enough...your boss is avoiding the country after the midterm elections..."

_He's like a shell of the Alfred you know, isn't he? _A voice in his head sneered. _And whose fault was that, I wonder?_

"So, I guess that means the best course of action is to focus on domestic issues? And on the debt—how much did you say it was again?"

England repeated the number, and watched as America's eyes widened.

_He's quite the nervous wreck, isn't he? What will happen when—_

"Is that why China looked so mad at me today, 'cause I haven't started paying him back?"

—_what will happen when your America comes back?_

"No, that was over something else..." England sighed, realizing how daunting his task would be. Why couldn't Canada just ag ree to pretend to be America for a few weeks? "Your Federal Reserve enacted something—decided to pump a lot of money into your economy, which should decrease the value of the dollar and thus help your exports. On the other hand, it doesn't work out so well for China, who has been pushing cheap exports to...you understand basic economics, right?"

_He'll be ruined. Ruined. Ruined. Ruined—Fucking Japan and his fucking machine._

"Yeah, I do..." America looked at the floor, and England wondered if he was too embarrassed to say that he had no idea what they were talking about.

_Or,_ a nasty voice in his head whispered,_ does he think of himself as a second-class citizen? What do they call it again_, it sneered, _oh yes, cultural cringe. A lovely term you've created._

"No Federal Reserve in your place?"

America pursed his lips. "You have one—it's just a central bank, right? Like the...Bank of England?"

"Right, right, it does function like that."

_He's still not looking you in the eye, is he? He's scared of something—what did you do, England? Just what did you _do_?_

"So how do I make them...less mad at me?"

_He's—trying to please these other countries—he's not a—_

"You don't. It's technically domestic policy you're enacting—there's no need to report to anyone else."

—_fucking colony here! And that's why you've always respected him the most isn't it? Of all your former colonies, and that torch..._

"I—okay, thanks for, well, for helping me out." America gave him a rueful smile. "I guess at least for now I can pretend to know what's going on in meetings with my boss."

He started to leave and England wondered if it was a good time to ask. America stood, pushing the chair back with his legs, retrieving his coat, waving, shuffling towards the door—

"Wait, America—"

He turned. "England?"

"In your world, what was I like?" A simple, open-ended enough question.

There was surprise in the reply that followed. "Why—why would you want to know? I mean, it's not that important—how you're like in my world..."

"I...well, as you know, I have a close friend there now. I'd like to at least know how things may be faring for him." _He's not really a friend anymore is he? After that first kiss—he hasn't been for a long, long time. And he's his own nation, and you can't protect him, and he's probably better at protecting himself than you are and he's the one protecting you all these years anyway, he's the one with NATO and that giant arsenal of crazy weapons and siphoning oil off every corner and garnering debt while still having most of the world using his currency as their reserve and—_

"Oh, right. I...I guess you could say it may be problematic. England is...let's just say that he and Russia are not happy with each other, and if I hadn't come here, I might've been caught in the middle."

"Brilliant."

America looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, this is—"

"It's not your fault." England shook his head emphatically.

"I know—it's just—it's unfortunate for both of us. I have no idea what I'll do when I get back—I'm so—never mind."

Upon realizing that America had sealed off the matter with a hasty "never mind", England prompted, "That is something I'd like to understand, you know. What would happen when you get back?"

"Well, he's encouraging Canada to declare war, right? I mean, I kind of think Matt's really not the type to turn it into a full-on _war, _but...what if they do actually fight a war?"

"Knowing Alfred," England mused, "they just might. You will just have to go back and either continue the fight or enjoy your status as an independent nation." England concluded, hoping he sounded convincing.

"But what if I lose? What if _we_ lose?" America looked desperate then, and England wasn't sure of what to say. Of course there was the chance they would lose, of course, of course. That was there in every war, every war was just a gamble, only with ever-larger, ever-bloodier consequences.

"...I can't lose again," America continued, rambling, "I just can't..and it would be even worse to drag Canada down with me...plus England doesn't—he doesn't know about Lithuania and Ukraine and Kazakhstan and—" America stopped himself abruptly, suddenly afraid. England could see it too—the fear etched in the skin surrounding America's forehead, the sudden halting of speech, the odd inflection his voice had taken on.

"What about you and those countries?" he tried prompting, hoping he came off as welcoming and not hostile.

America stared at him warily, as if testing the waters. _He's finally looking at you. _"They're my...well, we sort of promised each other that...if we were going to stage something like that, we'd all do it together...and we'd help each other out."

England nodded slowly. He could see it already—England—the _not-him-England—_helping the Russian colonies, Russia helping the English colonies, wars, bloodbaths, insanity—

"It'd be bad," America continued, "'cause he wouldn't know to keep it a secret, I mean, the whole damn thing is complicated. If he's gonna lay it all out in the open..."

"What would happen?"

"Oh, you mean...if England finds out about...those agreements?"

"Yes, I assume he doesn't approve of them." It felt funny talking about himself in third person.

"Of course not. He—but it'd be too late to see much of a reaction, we'd be fighting a _war_ against him by then."

"Hypothetically then, what would the reaction be?"

"Um, he'd...it wouldn't be so...good. I mean...he really hates Russia. It's rather crazy, and I'd rather not be caught in some proxy war between the two of them."

"Definitely not..." England echoed. He might not have first-hand experience but he'd seen enough of Alfred's proxy battles with Ivan to know—from Korea to Germany to Vietnam to...everything split apart—east, west, north, south, crack, crack, crack—

"Wait." America looked like he'd realized something. "Wait—what about—we don't know how the workings of moving to and from parallel worlds works—does each nation keep their original power? So if the land of America in this world were to be attacked, is it your America or me that feels the pain? I mean, if I don't feel any pain, that means I still represent my lands from back home, and so if they start a war of any sort, I'd know, right?"

"If it's the case, yes. But this...we can't ascertain this is the case. In order to really make you feel pain, the attacker would have to actually kill people. That's unacceptable if it's only for experimental purposes."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just...worried, you know?"

England put his hand on America's shoulder in a comforting gesture and smiled vaguely when he realized the other hadn't flinched. "We all are, Alfred. You'll just have to trust in yourself—_both_ yourselves."

—

**notes:**

- Russia won against Canada (5-3) in junior hockey championships this year. Apparently a humiliating defeat for Canada as the Russian team were the underdogs  
- Russia is literally buying pork from Canada — apparently pork exports from Canada to Russia have increased 40% this year.  
- There was a Gallup poll ranking Americans' perceptions of a number of nations. This poll got reposted in a number of places, and I remember one news site where several Canadians were indeed mocking the British. A small-scale flamewar ensued and I can't find the link to it anymore.  
- "Blood is thicker than water" - in 1859, a U.S. Navy Commodore used this to explain why he helped the British attack Taku Forts (China) when the Americans were officially neutral.  
- "Speak White" - a poem about the treatment of French-speakers in Canada

* * *

Thanks for all the reviews everyone! They're all very appreciated. :) Unfortunately, updates will probably be somewhat slower from here on out, as college started a week ago, so I'll be drowning in programming projects. Or actually, they could be faster if I had shorter chapters—would people prefer that?


	6. saviors : alternate universe

**chapter 6**

* * *

If everyone hadn't been staring at them, Canada was sure he would've willingly dug his own grave to avoid the fury in Russia's gaze.

"The two of _you_," Russia snarled, "the two of you were never even here for the trial. What makes you think your votes would mean a thing?"

"Oh, we weren't here, right?" America snapped sarcastically, "Yes, just because you weren't courteous enough to _invite_ us and provide seats for us doesn't mean we weren't fucking _present_. And didn't you tell England a few minutes ago that he's free to bring whichever colonies of his he wants? We're here now, aren't we? If you think we're just gonna let you kick us out because of some arbitrary crap-rules you made up—well, that's _not_ going to happen!"

"Wrong," Russia replied, "it seems to me that the two of you were _spying_ on us, were you not? Or else how would you have heard my reply to England earlier? That is more than enough reason to disqualify the two of you from being on the jury."

Canada chanced a glance at England. The nation was looking rather disoriented, as if he couldn't decide whether he ought to punch America in the face for being disobedient, or unite with his colony against their common enemy—Russia. Then England looked like he'd decided on the latter, because he snapped, "Bullshit, Russia. Trials are an open affair, and anyone who wishes to attend is free to do so. It is impossible for America and Canada to have been spying when they were perfectly welcome to listen in the first place."

"That is besides the point. They want to serve on the jury, but they were _late_, _Angliya_. Why should I trust that they've overheard the entire trial? And how can they be allowed to serve on the jury if they haven't? Incomplete information does not allow for good decision-making, wouldn't you agree?"

"And how exactly would you know they _weren't_ present for the entire meeting? I'm noticing a pattern from you, Russia. You seem to enjoy making accusation after accusation that you can't prove, somehow expecting to swindle us with your words. I should inform you that we aren't that easy to trick," England replied smoothly.

England, Canada knew, quite enjoyed his verbal spars, especially when his opponent was Russia. Of course, England and Russia were hardly compatible debaters—while England valued high wit, Russia was a great troll. (Russia had once rewired England's radio to blast the Tetris song at extreme volume anytime England's feet touched the floor. How he'd managed to fit pressure sensors under England's floor would forever remain a mystery.)

"Fine then, America, Canada. What accusation did England throw my way?" Russia asked, voice challenging.

America grinned, bright with excitement. "He accused you of dealing me drugs, duh! I was here the whole time, I _told_ you—"

"Oh, and _did_ I deal you drugs, America?" Russia's lips were pressed into a thin line. There was something threatening about his posture, something horribly dangerous, but America failed to notice.

Instead, in an act most unfit for the situation, America threw back his head and laughed, eyes lit with mirth. "You know, Russia, perhaps you have. It depends on whether you're talking about literally or metaphorically."

Russia, realizing that he couldn't win in an argument with America (who was, it seemed, crazy—what was up with that laugh?), turned to England instead. If he couldn't back America into a corner, he would make it impossible for the Anglophones to work together. "_Angliya_," Russia leered, "it seems like you have no control over your wayward colonies. It is quite pathetic that you allow them free reign over your affairs—the two of them barge into our meeting against your wishes and what do you do? Stand there and take it? It makes me wonder—who is the colonized and who is the colonizer?"

"Don't run your fucking mouth on things you know nothing about," England snarled, "You should be the one mourning, you poor fool—you're the one with useless drones for colonies—at least mine can think for themselves! I wonder, Russia, what's it like when your colonies are barely an upgrade above robots? Surely with our technological progress you can obtain bots any day of the week?"

"Oh, and I suppose you must be ever so _proud_ of your spoiled brats, hm? Because, yes, having spoiled little pigs must be _so_ appetizing."

"Enough!" Switzerland cut in (America thought he did an impressive imitation of Germany—the two of them even spoke the same language, didn't they?), "Can we _please_ get back to voting? Russia, England, I am _sick_ of your antics, and I'm sure everyone else here shares my sentiments."

"Wrong," Russia snapped, turning his glare on Switzerland, "I do not care _who_ shares your sentiments, but America is the subject of the trial. How is it possible that his vote is not declared void?"

"And how does calling England _names_ help you achieve your goal?" Switzerland snapped back, unfazed by Russia. "Listen, since it's obvious that neither you nor England are capable of acting civilly, we're going to put this up to a vote and let the _masses_ decide. Those that support allowing America and Canada to join the jury, please raise your hands."

Canada looked around the room—hands were going up, one by one. First France (unsurprising, because despite proclaiming himself to be England's rival, he was really quite smitten), then Japan (also unsurprising, as this was some odd form of island solidarity), China (surprising, because wasn't he still irked over Hong Kong?), Spain (unsurprising, because Spain rather liked France), Mongolia (was this because of China?), Portugal (an old ally), Andorra, Finland, Sweden, Norway (unsurprising, as the three often voted together), Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Belgium, and...

Canada's eyes widened, and he quickly met Ukraine and Lithuania's eyes. There seemed to be something off about the way they were looking at Canada—they were planning something, but were they trying to assure themselves or Canada? What were they—would they risk their lives to support the motion? Canada hoped not, because whatever England would do once the affair was all over would almost certainly be better than what _Russia_ would do, and it wasn't right to ask the two Soviet states to suffer such a fate. It was not worth it—he wanted to say—so don't do anything rash!

He choked when he realized that Lithuania had lifted his arm into the air.

"_Litva_," Russia began, eyebrows raised. He didn't say anymore, because he didn't need to, because everyone _knew_.

Lithuania looked shaken, but did not respond.

The votes counted in the North American brothers' favor, but Canada wanted to scream. What difference would it make now that Russia was going to _destroy_ Lithuania in the comfort of his own home? Who gave a shit if they _won_? It was an empty victory, empty because they were asking a close friend to shoulder a huge burden. He met Lithuania's eyes, not sure if it was best to laugh or cry.

"Alright," America continued, oblivious to Lithuania's plight, "Now that that's settled..." He grabbed two sheets of lined paper from Switzerland and shoved both into Canada's hands before Russia could ignite further protest.

After they'd cast their votes, he turned to Switzerland and asked, "So what's the count now?"

"And why would you even need to ask?" Russia snarled, voice thick with barely contained fury. "I cannot believe that everyone here has allowed a clearly biased vote to pass. After these two ignorant pigs barged into the meeting room—does anyone here _truly_ believe that a vote cast by _America_, who was the one on trial, can somehow be considered legitimate?"

"Look," England seethed, "I'm the one on trial, not America, and if you wish to speak about exactly how _biased_ this jury is, you only need to look around the damn meeting room. I wonder, Russia, if you think bringing _all_ your colonies along is somehow less biased?"

"Alright," Switzerland intervened, "We've listened, we've judged, and we've voted, so I do believe we're done here. If the two of you will kindly take your arguments _elsewhere_, then perhaps we can move onto something more important."

Russia and England shot each other heated glares, but remained silent.

"Now then," Switzerland continued, "North Italy requests that we begin our lunch break. All those in favor?"

The motion passed unanimously.

—

America had wanted to go bother Japan, but as soon as the words 'lunch break' were pronounced, the nation was nowhere to be found. And worse, despite their protests that they'd already eaten, England had insisted that Canada and America join him. The Empire was picking delicately at his food (which, Canada noted with some amusement, was Hong Kong's cooking and not his own).

Canada shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. He had no idea how America could sit at the table with England and not look the least bit nervous—England had _broke his arm_, for fuck's sake!

"I suppose..." England began stiffly, glancing surreptitiously at America's arm, "I suppose I should thank the two of you. Even though you started it in the first place."

America snorted, turning away. "Yeah, you do that."

There was another awkward silence, during which America fumed, Canada fidgeted, and England pondered on a reasonable conversation topic. Eventually, England broke the silence. "Look, you two shouldn't just watch me eat. There's a nice sandwich place down this street. I can buy you both something—"

America answered for both of them. "We've already eaten."

"Dessert, then? There's a bakery nearby with Russian pastries."

"Not hungr—"

Before he could finish his petulant outcry, America felt someone—Canada—kick his leg. Okay, so he probably shouldn't have been so rude, because if his theory were at all true, he'd have to try harder to actually _act_ like a British colony, Victorian era politeness and all. Pissing off England would only waste his time, time that he _should_ be spending on fixing Japan's machine. But how _exactly_ had he behaved back in the day?

Canada turned to England and said, "We're not too hungry, England, but dessert would be nice."

"Yes, dessert does sound good," America hastily amended, glancing back and forth between his brother and England. Hopefully this particular bakery had _syrniki—_his favorite Russian-style pancake. He'd remembered wolfing down a large number of them at a summit with Russia once, and then becoming offended when Russia had discreetly mouthed 'fatty' in his direction. Why did the nation have to be such a bastard about America's weight? He did get the last laugh when Russia's boss had agreed to go to a burger place with his boss though—oh, the _look_ on Ivan's face!

—

Lunch was the most awkward affair England had ever engaged in. He wasn't sure what to feel—because yes, in some sense, the North American brothers' disobedience of his orders had allowed him to win the trial, but wasn't it also because of their disobedience that the trial had to be held in the first place? It was a double-edged sword, it really was, and he couldn't trust his colonies to handle it properly.

"America, Canada. I hope you both understand that what happened today is _not _to become a common occurrence."

"Certainly." Canada was quick to agree. America, on the other hand, remained alarmingly silent.

"America," England grumbled, impatient. "Did you hear what I said?"

America grunted. "Yeah, yeah, I _heard_ you. Which part exactly do you not want to be a common occurrence? The mishap in the meeting room or the part where I swooped in to save your—"

"Look," England snapped, frustrated, "I want neither incident repeated, understood? You have no experience in the dealings of international affairs, and if you think repeating stunts like that will get you somewhere, you're horribly mistaken. I'm only telling you this for _your_ sake—the world is not a forgiving place, and you were only lucky that a mass of nations didn't kick you out of the meeting room."

America nodded absent-mindedly. Technically, England was right—he _didn't_ know the international affairs of this new universe he'd been forced to inhabit, though he'd had _plenty_ of experience in dealing with a motley crew of nations. Maybe England just needed a nudge in the right direction—what did his psychologists call it again? Oh yes, positive reinforcement. (Or, summed up more primitively: Step 1. Praise England. Step 2. Make a request. Step 3. ? Step 4. Profit!)

"So England," America began, "I agree with you and everything, but don't you think we're more than ready to navigate these affairs by now? I mean, how can it hurt to gain some experience, to learn a bit? You could teach us or something—it'd be great!"

"Don't be daft!" England grumbled, "What could the two of you possibly understand?"

America looked ready to protest, until England continued, "Actually, there is maybe something you two could do for me. Did you see—today—during the vote—what Lithuania did?"

Canada's eyes widened, because he hadn't really considered _England_'s reaction—was he suspecting something? Did he know what Lithuania's true purpose was? He could only hope not, because what if England suspected that Lithuania's actions were deeper than simple rebellion against Russia? What if he knew of their deformed friendship, what if—

"In any case," England continued, "I suspect that something, perhaps a rift of some sort, is developing between Lithuania and Russia. I don't know if this rift extends to the other Baltic states, because for Lithuania to openly express his disapproval of Russia's policies..." England chuckled, looking at America. "It's quite the interesting development, I must say. And since you two _insist_ on learning a thing or two about international politics—I'll give you something to mull over—see if you can deepen the rift between Lithuania and Russia."

"And if we—" America paused to stuff the last bite of _syrniki_ into his mouth, and Canada cringed. How many times had England told him _not_ to eat like that? "—if we manage to do this—then what?"

England gave him a disapproving look, whether about the (lack of) etiquette or the statement itself no one could tell. "You really are forgetful, America. Don't you remember that time I told you about the documents detailling Russia's political infighting? This, combined with those documents, will help us to bring Russia down a peg or two. He and his sordid communist affairs, they really don't have a place in this world, wouldn't you agree?"

"Well, duh," America agreed smoothly, "Whoever doesn't agree is an anti-Am—anti-democratic idiot!" He hastily corrected himself, realizing that "anti-American" was probably not an appropriate phrase, given their current situation. Hopefully England didn't misconstrue his statement to be sarcastically mocking the validity of the British Empire's...whatever they were doing.

—

As soon as the meeting had reconvened and England was tucked in the safe recesses of the meeting room, Canada dragged America aside and said, "Look, America, I don't have any idea exactly _how_ crazy you are, but did Russia give you drugs or not? Tell me the truth."

"What?" America asked, a bewildered look plastered on his face, "Seriously man, of course he didn't! I don't take drugs from bastards like _him_, and he isn't even all that good at producing anything I like anyway. I mean, shit, who really wants to drink _vodka_? The damn thing tastes like rubbing alcohol mixed with toilet cleaner—not that I've tasted toilet cleaner—and I'm not cutting my lifespan in half just to enjoy a drink. Besides, I already told you I'm _not_ crazy, you _saw_ Japan's machine with your own eyes!"

"Yeah, but what makes you think it did anything? You have no evidence, Alfred, you can't come to an utterly illogical conclusion and expect me to go with it! What if you're an impostor? What if someone planted you here to spy—"

"Are you _kidding_ me? If I'm spying why the hell would I _bother_ to help England today? It's pretty pointless if I were a Russian spy, don't you think?"

And that, Canada thought, was precisely the reason why America might be an impostor—certainly his 'brother' wasn't a Russian spy, but rather an impostor _England_ had implanted. An impostor who wanted to steal their secrets involving Lithuania and Ukraine and Kazakhstan and...No, that was unlikely, considering that America had suggested, quite fervently, that they plan a revolution. Certainly someone on England's side would not be so vocally encouraging about the matter.

"Alright..." he conceded, "so maybe you're not an impostor. But if your theory or whatever is right, you still know _nothing_ about us, and nothing about—well, everything. If you're going to plan a rebellion..."

Canada wondered silently if his decision to tell this America everything was the right one. But it didn't matter anymore, because his mouth was running for him, as though he had no control over his instincts—"So first of all, the reason Lithuania voted for us today—it's because he's on our side. He doesn't like Russia any more than we like England, and well...we were thinking of setting up a date to stage...simultaneous rebellions. But this wasn't supposed to happen anytime soon, and now that Lithuania has openly expressed his disapproval of Russia—I don't know, I just don't know..."

"Hey, I say it's a sign!" America grinned. "Lithuania obviously wants you guys—_us—_to start things already. I mean, if he's riled up Russia that much, why not just openly fight? He's got nothing to lose at this point, 'cause if he doesn't fight, I'm betting Russia's going to screw him over."

"Yes, but isn't it obvious yet that we're not _ready_ for a war? We don't have an official army, and we can't exactly train one when England's soldiers are _everywhere_. If we start a war, the only thing we can really withhold are natural resources, and England is certainly not lacking in allies who are willing to provide resources for him."

"It's not about natural resources or armies or manpower or anything like that, Matt." America had a suddenly serious look on his face, and Canada wondered what exactly he was trying to convey. Then America leaned forward with a gleam in his eye and said, "You'll see, Matt, you'll see. I have a plan, and it involves the _people_, not fancy guns or uranium pits or what have you. You said that England's people use Baidu as a search engine to protest Optical's censorship, right?"

"Well, yeah, some of them..."

There was a pause before Canada added, "Wait, have you seen the news at all? They're going to be here today, physically staging a protest, and they're..."

—

The annual "Anti-Optical Censorship" rally had always attracted a great number of internet lurkers from their respective mothers' basements. Coming out to the protest marked a monumental moment for each of them, as it was the beginning of the end of a life of armchair protest. England could not _stand_ the protesters—they were too damn loud, too damn rowdy and generally encroached on his quiet Sunday morning in a most unwelcome manner. And worse, how the _hell_ had an entire horde of them been wealthy enough to afford a goddamn flight to _Moscow_?

Shouting filled his mind, and England clutched his head delicately, trying to concentrate on _not falling_.

A high pitched voice rocked the base of his skull, and he bit his lip to keep from screaming. _"Fuck the government, the pathetic information hoarders that they are!"_

This was followed by a hoarse yell: _"Fuck censorship! Fuck corporate greed! Fuck the military-industrial complex and its mouthpiece Optical!"_

England tilted his head to the side, trying desperately to contain the voices. They lack originality, he told himself, because they were ripping off the "fuck the police" slogans of yesteryear, replacing "police" with their catchphrase of choice—he'd remembered putting those posters up himself, back when he'd had a momentary lapse of mental sanity and identified with the rebellious hooligans. Besides, Optical didn't really censor, they just made it slightly cheaper for the government to push their preferred sites to the top. How in the _world_ was that censorship? It was just a most welcome discount, especially since he was running out of money and his economy was in the hole and these arseholes were choosing to waste money by flying to a foreign country to protest.

Why couldn't people be more appreciative of his efforts?

The voices became louder and more abrasive, punctuated by various incoherent shouts, sirens, and nasal roars. England wanted to scream. Why in all the levels of hell did his people have to come so _damn_ far to protest? They were going to embarrass him in front of everyone else, turn the British Empire into the laughingstock of the world.

And worse, why was it that _every_ single damn time some bastard picked up a sign, he would be left feeling like an avalanche had dropped on his head? Their shouts could be thousands of miles away (but it was worse now, because it was so close), and they would immediately take over his mind, body, soul, leaving him incapable of doing _anything_. He couldn't stand this—the stupid headache, the way his ears were ringing, the way his people were so _fucking_ ungrateful.

England ripped open the window to his room and glared down at the people below. His street was quiet at least; it looked like all the protesters had decided to concentrate their efforts on busier roads.

Then he felt his hands shake uncontrollably and heard a deafening roar in the back of his mind: _"Optical is a lie! The CEO should be shot!"_

_"Take it down! Tear down the fucking Optical tower—it's a symbol of censorship and oppression, and we the people will not stand for it! Will we stand here and take it?"_

_"No!"_

_"Will we?"_

_"No!"_

The voices grew ever louder, every shout punctuated by a painful ring, as though some pathetic child was trying play drums, volume and anger feeding into each other like an infinite feedback loop.

"Damnit!" England screamed, shooting a frenzied glare to the people in the streets below him—they were making such a ruckus and couldn't they see what they were _doing_ to him, couldn't they see? Why were they so pathetically blind, so willfully ignorant?

"Fuck you all!" he screeched, slamming his arms into the windowsill, "You think Optical is a lie? Well then, what the hell is the point in using Baidu to protest? You think Baidu doesn't fucking censor? You goddamn fools don't even _think_, and then what do you do? Make us all pay and pay and fucking _pay_ to China—just what is wrong with you? You have brains for _shite_! For shite!"

He ended the last word with a punch to the wall and slumped against it, sickened.

Because his people were right, weren't they? Because he was his people, and they were always right. Optical was a manipulative little bastard, too caught up in making its own profits to care. And England wondered—was it possible for corporations to take over nations? What if—what if Optical built such large corporate headquarters that they covered the entirety of his land? And what if Optical provided the food, the lodging, the jobs—_everything—_would he and his people be so damn dependent on the company that the CEO of Optical would be his boss?

England shuddered at the thought. It was pathetic, really, absolutely pathetic that the British Empire could be reduced to something like that by a single corporation. A puny, useless, potentially _defunct_ corporation if he pressed hard enough.

He decided that he had to go down and protest with his people, because Optical was lame, it was evil, and these were _his people_ so how could they ever be wrong?

* * *

**notes:**

- _Litva_ is Russian for Lithuania. I'm pretty sure Russia wouldn't call Lithuania "Lietuva", as Russia was pretty oppressive of the Lithuanian culture/language.  
- _syrniki_ - a Russian pancake-like entity  
- The Russian and American presidents made a visit to Ray's Hell Burger together after a meeting at the White House.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! They're really appreciated. :) Also, I'm going for somewhat shorter chapters and faster updates.


	7. farming : our world

**chapter 7**

* * *

It was the third day of the World Conference, and everything had started normally.

Well, as normally as a meeting could be when the nation sitting (silently) by England was not really the right nation.

As normally as it could be when France looked stressed, Germany stony-faced, and England had a feeling it was because their little Eurozone gang was not doing so well. Bailing out Ireland and Greece, he'd laughed to himself, what an intelligent task Germany had undertaken. He tried not to think about how he'd agreed to the Irish bailouts too, how he was really just as screwed as they were, and he didn't even have the solidarity of their union to back himself up...

And there France was, trying to comfort Germany, hoping the nation would stay with Europe and not bail, hoping...

England couldn't help but feel that something was wrong there. Though he told the world that he didn't give a damn about European activities (he was, as he liked to say, hardly European), it was in his interests to observe. This was how these things worked—observe, distract, and destroy. Of course, in their day and age, he could cross off 'destroy' from his list of activities, but that didn't negate the validity of the first two. If America bailed on him, he'd have to depend on the perpetually fickle EU member states, and it was best to know what you were getting into, right?

There was something off about France—the nation had been acting...he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it felt slimy, much slimier than the usual France-fare. France was definitely up to something, because Germany acted as though he was twirled around France's little finger. How could Germany have failed to notice—France had dubious ideas, _French_ ideas about Europe and its future and France was using Germany to enact them, because—

—because France was goddamn lazy, and was Germany just going to let it slide?

(Was France so mind-blowingly good in bed that Germany just didn't care? Or perhaps it was lingering guilt, guilt from that war—)

But then, England thought bitterly to himself, maybe it wasn't like that, maybe he was just being horribly negative and cynical. Because even if the Eurozone was failing miserably, at least France and Germany had _each other_. They needed each other, so even if they argued, even if they disagreed, they were bound together by the string of necessity. Being neighbors made nations like that—because if they weren't making love then they were making war, and France and Germany were surely sick of making war.

_(When he'd finally escaped the searing burn of Germany's embrace, left his Vichy half hanging out to dry, France had been silent. It was a horrible silence, and England hadn't known what to say. He wanted to ask the usual banalities—"Are you alright? Do you need anything? What happened in there? What—"_

_But he knew the answers already—because how could he not, how could he not when there was a deep cut marring France's face, when France had visibly limped into the meeting room? Then there was the way the nation had sat—so rigid, so stiff, and so wrong. _

_Where was the real France, the arrogant, demanding man who would turn up his nose at England's piss-poor cooking and crack jokes about his uniform? Where was the France that didn't stare at the floor, lost in thought, stolen in soul. Where the __fuck__ was _France_?_

___—_  


_England had gone down into the __warehouse_ where they were keeping Germany. 

_(Alone, he had to do this alone.)_

_He found the nation perched on top of the lone chair, wrists bound together with handcuffs and head bowed. England had pulled up a chair and just sat there, glaring and seething in silence at their prisoner. Germany met England's gaze momentarily, and then he looked down, wringing his hands in discomfort. __Good, England thought, he should be uncomfortable._

_And so they sat like that for a good hour, England boring his gaze into Germany's head, and Germany shifting uncomfortably in his seat, feeling dirty and sick._

_England had wanted to punch the nation, but settled for yelling instead (because he didn't think America would approve if he socked Germany in the jaw). "What did you do, Germany?"_

_There was no response, and England snarled, "What the fuck did you _do, _you sorry excuse for a living being?"_

_Germany didn't answer, but his hands were shaking, and England knew__—it would only take a little more, a little more and Germany would go over the edge, a little more and the half-shattered veneer of calm would be expunged, exposing the dirt and grime below, exposing the monster that had been nursed night after night in the early years of the war._

___"What, you won't tell me? Are you _ashamed_, Germany? Ashamed of what you did? Well, guess what? It's too late now, it's too fucking _late_! Because everyone knows now, and if you thought you could take your dirty secrets to the grave, well, you disgusting cunt, we won't _let_ you!__"_

_Germany looked horrified, and England wanted to laugh. He was right, wasn't he? Just a little more, and Germany would—_

_The nation sank to the floor, clutching his head, the dirty secrets of the war pouring from his mind in waves._

_Germany screamed._

_England had left then, because he didn't want to see Germany break down, because whatever was happening now in their modern world, it was terrifying, and he didn't know if he could face it anymore. Because nothing was right anymore—nothing was normal—France was gone, Germany was haunted, Italy was hysterical, and Russia, Russia was downright disgusting, a monster of his own creation._

_America—he needed to see America—because America was still in possession of his senses, right? Because America—)_

Was that how he'd come to depend on the idiot?

America certainly didn't need England, it was really the other way around, because his own military and defense projects were so damn tied up in America's that he couldn't even tell the difference anymore. So what if he left because he no longer found England useful, because he felt like being callous? It was part of the reason England had been so willing to enter into that military cooperation deal with France, because he had to diversify his holdings, because what if America abandoned him for no reason?

(Not that this America would leave, his current situation was so jarring and different and confusing and now he actually _needed_ England—)

A cellphone rang, loud and shrill and an almost welcome distraction (why his thoughts constantly turned to this bizarre trans-Atlantic tug-of-war he didn't know). China was yelling something in Chinese, making it clear who was the owner of the phone.

"That was my _rìjì, nǐ zhègè húndàn_! That's utterly unfair, how could—What do you mean I wasn't complaining? It just wasn't on my radar, but now that it is—"

England raised an eyebrow at Hong Kong, who was standing behind China, hoping the boy could shed some light. Hong Kong had been fiddling absent-mindedly with a Rubik cube, and he suddenly raised and lowered his eyebrows several times in rapid succession. What was the boy getting at with—oh—_oh—_goddamn it, was Hong Kong good or what?

England suddenly felt a surge of pride, because it looked like Hong Kong hadn't forgotten the Morse code he'd taught him years ago, back when they were attempting to build telegraph lines, back when the world had been simpler, smaller, and the sun had never set on his lands.

England shook with barely contained laughter, it was bloody hilarious, watching the rapid fire of Hong Kong's eyebrows: Raise-raise-raise-raise. Raise-raise. Raise-raise-raise. Lower-raise-raise—and he desperately needed to _not_ laugh, because this new communication protocol of theirs was not something he wanted to draw attention to.

When he'd finally parsed what Hong Kong was saying—_"His diary got stolen."—_England really couldn't stop himself and made a loud, choked noise.

The poor sod's _diary_ had gotten snatched.

He raised his own eyebrows, signalling that he would be replying back in the same manner. Hong Kong's lips pressed into a thin smile and he nodded encouragingly. England reframed his question in his mind carefully, hoping to minimize eyebrow movements. He eventually settled on a short "By whom?" 'B', if he remembered correctly, was a dash followed by three dots, so he quickly scrunched up his thick brows and rapidly raised them three times. 'Y' was mostly dashes, 'w' was a dot followed by two dashes, and 'h' was a series of four dots. 'O' was obviously three dashes, and—

England, still deep in concentration, had failed to notice that, one, China's phone call had ended, and two, that half the nations at the table were gawking at him, jaws ajar in unison.

"Ah, _Angleterre_," France began, "Is that a new dance you've invented? An eyebrow dance, it is indeed something only _Angleterre_ can invent, as none of the rest of us have such _voluptuous_ eyebrows, correct? We heathens are simply not suited for such stylish dance moves."

"I'll have you know, France, that I was communicating in Morse code!"

England belatedly realized exactly how insane that statement sounded. In fact, there had never been a moment in his life where he'd wanted to die more, because even the usually straight-faced Germany had his mouth twisted into a confused half-grin.

England glared around the room, daring anyone to extend France's statement, hoping that his glare still carried some weight.

Then his gaze fell upon America, who quickly looked away. And England suddenly felt bad, because he really shouldn't be taking out his anger on this...new America. But the way America was biting down on his lips made it obvious—he'd been laughing, just like everyone else, and even though his gaze was averted, England could tell that his eyes were lit with mirth. After being a witness to _this_, America would probably never take England seriously again—just fucking _great_.

Still, this was all typical, wasn't it? France finding some stupid excuse to mock him, Germany silently joining in on the fun, America—well, America looking _away_ was not typical. Usually, the nation would be busy conspiring with France, trying to conjure a method to get England to repeat his 'incident' in a different setting. Though actually, in this specific case, he was sure America would've spent the entire meeting using eyebrow Morse code to communicate with him, all the while jabbering on about how they should invent a term called "eyebrow diplomacy" with definition "to be determined".

—

It was Japan's turn to present, and Japan, ever-organized, had prepared a slideshow. His first topic of choice—a robot he was sending into space.

England found himself glaring at the slideshow of Japan's robots, as he couldn't help but think of that one contraption of Japan's that had caused his America to _disappear_. How could Japan have the gall to come up here and discuss creating robots after what had happened? Japan was lucky that England hadn't felt bitter enough to simply tell the world of this mishap, Japan was _goddamn_ lucky!

(Of course, there was the added problem that America would be in danger if he breathed a word of the matter, but England really didn't want to think about _that_.)

"_Yaponiya,_" Russia interrupted Japan's monologue, and Japan froze, recognizing a challenge in Russia's tone of voice. Whatever Russia wanted now could not possibly be any good, and America wasn't here to defend him—this America wouldn't _understand_. "Your robots are certainly very entertaining. I do wonder—have you made sure to program them to stay away from the Kuril Islands?"

Japan narrowed his eyes, willing himself to be brave. "What are you talking about, _Roshia_? I was not aware that those islands were yours."

"Well, they most certainly are not _yours_. In fact, I have a proposal—how about we decide who gets to keep the Kuril Islands through popular vote? This democracy thing—" he glanced at America with a pointed grin "—it's very useful, is it not?"

"This affair is between us, _Roshia_, and I don't see how putting it up to a vote would be useful. And I would like to remind you that without my permission, other nations should not be allowed to enter—"

"The islands are not _yours_, _Yaponiya_, and the faster you acknowledge that, the better. I won them fair and square in the Second World War—I distinctly remember you signing them over to the Allies. You have no control over them now, and _Kitaj_ and I intend to make full use of them."

"_Kitaj_?" Japan repeated, wondering who Russia had invited to the party _now_. He found himself glancing fleetingly in America's direction, and he told himself to stop, because America wasn't _here_ and he couldn't always depend on America anyway, he couldn't wait for America to fight his battles, he wasn't that _weak_—

"Yes, _Kitaj_," Russia said, patting his good friend China on the shoulder. Japan cringed, because of all the nations Russia had to choose, it just _had_ to be China, right?

"We are going to farm scallops together!" Russia punctuated the sentence with a wide smile.

Japan glanced back and forth between the two of them—he could tell what was going on here, and he was _not_ about to allow the Kuril Islands to turn into some sort of a courtship gift from Russia to China! Russia had probably felt more confident because the NATO nations had been more friendly with him recently—they'd gone out to drinks, all of them congregating in some lousy bar, and Russia probably felt like he _belonged_. So now he could afford a few jabs in Japan's direction, because it wasn't like Japan could do anything, it wasn't like—

Japan gripped the podium, suddenly overcome with worry and disgust, because Russia was acting like an opportunistic goon, and of course China would take any opportunity to tag along, and just where was America when you needed him?

—

England did his best to tune out the commotion at the front of the room. If Japan wanted to drag out some heated game with Russia (and possibly China, it looked like), so be it. It was none of his business, although he'd played with Russia before—and he'd _won_ then too, being brilliant and all—but Russia hadn't been like this back then. He'd remembered the matter with some fondness, as the two of them were actually quite similar, two outsiders from the affairs of continental Europe playing a most European game.

England glanced at America, who looked to be watching the back-and-forth between Russia and Japan with intense interest.

"So..." England began, "Japan ever take on Russia like that in your world?"

There was a slightly strained look on America's face, and England wondered if he was afraid to talk while others were presenting. He felt an urge to shake the nation and say,_ It doesn't matter, America, just talk whenever you want to and fuck what they think!_

"Um..well, Japan was a Briti—"

"Please don't tell me he was a British colony," England groused. Exactly how many overseas territories did this blasted fool hold? And Japan—how had _Japan_ fallen?

America's face broke out into a slight smile. "No, no, I was going to say he's your ally, so, yes, he has taken on Russia. Just not that often, 'cause he usually just lets you deal with Russia's...uh...antics."

"Antics," England nodded, appreciative, "That's a good way to put it." Although he'd probably have applied the term more towards America—_his_ America—than Russia.

Because a proper definition of the word 'antics' could not be written without including an example of that one time America had remapped Russia's keyboard. Pressing 'R' would render an ascii drawing of a penis, and typing any combination of swear words in either English or Russian would cause the laptop to play an audio clip of the word on repeat. Russia, of course, had the misfortune of typing 'fuck' by accident during the meeting, and his laptop had exploded with a crass string of 'fuckfuckfuckfuck' in the middle of his speech.

"Russia—he—ah, do you think he's just trolling Japan?"

England gave the nation an amused look and said, "Troll? Do you mean the monster-under-the-bridge kind or the internet kind?"

America glanced at the trio again and said, "Um, the latter, I think. 'Cause, well...Russia's smiling every time he talks about 'farming scallops' and China's smiling at the exact same time, so I kinda assumed that...that they have some inside joke going on there...and, well, yeah."

England found himself staring at Russia, then Japan, and China, and he had to concede that America was likely quite right. And America had actually gone to the effort to observe them when the matter didn't concern him at all—this Alfred was really quite good at picking up on subtleties, wasn't he?

"Do you think," America began again, "do you think China's been taking pointers from Russia about trolling?"

"Well, it's a possibility, I suppose." England tried to imagine Russia teaching China the art of trolling. He found himself face to face with a monster of Sino-Russian creation, a twin-headed dragon with one head labeled France and the other Germany—and fuck it, how the hell had that happened? Since when did continental Europe even enter into the picture? He swore he was never allowing his imagination to run wild again.

Having recovered a bit from unwelcome images, England looked at America again and realized that the nation looked comfortable, happy even, to make conversation with him. Even if he still made awkward gestures and his speech was punctuated with hesitant pauses, a willingness to joke and smile was always a good sign. Perhaps if he kept America talking, everything would be fine, the kid would recover, handle his affairs like the _real_ America, and—

"So...um, is Russia...what's he like when he's not trolling?" _Good_, England thought, _he's talking without you prompting him to do so._

A shrill scream interrupted England's attempt to explain the complicated landscape of Russia's mindset. He, like his neighbors, shot up from his seat and looked around the room. Then he cringed—because—it was—

South Korea had collapsed.

(And the timing of it was all wrong, so, so wrong.)

South Korea was screaming something incoherent as he fell, hands clawing at the table in desperation and fear. Blood was spilling from an open wound on his arm, and Japan was standing in shock next to him, unsure of what to do. Because they weren't really all that friendly, because South Korea had been so bitter over the years, but it didn't matter, did it? They both knew exactly who had caused it, it was so obvious, so disgusting, so—

Japan looked at England, and they both cringed in understanding. Their America should've been here, because if America was here, he would be the one condemning the attacks, voice spreading like wildfire over their newspapers. But America wasn't here, America was sitting numbly next to England, unsure of the situation and unsure of what his reaction should be.

Canada was staring at his brother too, eyebrows knit together in worry.

(Because something was _wrong_ with America, something was horribly, horribly wrong.)

"Is...is he alright?" America asked, eyes wide with confusion, because everyone was staring at him, and what exactly was he supposed to do? If he was a superpower, how would he react? Would he feel the need to...interfere, perhaps? He had to do something, he had to...

—

**notes:**

- Japan and Russia are currently having a row over the Kuril Islands. Russia has official jurisdiction over the islands, but Japan lays claim to several. There were treaties after WWII that turned the islands over to the Allies, just not specifically to Russia, and Japan claims Russia shouldn't have had them (and also that Russia violated the Soviet-Japanese neutrality pact). The whole matter is pretty muddled. Note that what I wrote was Japan's perspective, so it's bound to be biased. If Russia could have his say, I'm sure his argument would sound reasonable too.

- Russia recently started a joint scallop-farming business with China on the Kuril Islands. Of course, this annoys Japan to no end.

- Japan wants to send a humanoid robot into space: news . cnet . com / 8301-17938_105-20032849-1 . html

- Germany and France were having issues a while back, but please take England's analysis of their relationship with a grain of salt, as his descriptions are very tainted by his own perspective. Basically, Germany was very unhappy about the bailouts (as they're shouldering most of the burden) and thus was thinking of cooling the whole Eurozone project. France, of course, would have none of this, and their focus became keeping Germany in the European project. After much convincing from France, Germany and France are (again) united in support for the euro, which has pissed off the other EU member states.

- Hong Kong basically explains what China says, but the actual translation is: "That was my diary you bastard!" Note that the diary hasn't actually been leaked yet, it's in transition. ;)

- Also, these events are not happening in chronological order—in reality, the scallop-farming was a very recent development and it's not at the same time of China's diary leakage.

* * *

Wow, I have never made it so far with a story before (I usually abandon at around the fifth chapter :P). Thanks for the continued support everyone! :)


	8. bastards and pigs : alternate universe

**chapter 8**

Wow, thanks all the reviews, everyone! Sorry this chapter took a while, real life got extremely busy. (That, and I was distracted with writing some one-shots, oops.) Also, this is probably too late for dragonheart3's birthday, but happy (late) birthday anyway! :)

* * *

If America could compliment himself for anything, it would have to be his ability to bluff. Because when he'd bragged to Canada that he had other ways of winning a "war", his mouth had been running faster than his brain; he had very little idea how he was going to win anything.

He had decided that he would join the protests, although whether that would actually _do_ anything he couldn't say. After all, he knew it was England's people protesting, and that had to count for something, right? It was usually difficult to determine exactly how one's people could affect their nation—sometimes, if the opinions were too polarizing, the nation could end up bipolar, with only moments of lucidity.

(He'd experienced it himself over the years, hadn't he? As his people had become ever more polarized, ever more angry, he'd felt his sanity dissolving bit by bit, and if it weren't for his friends...)

There was no way to determine what England's reaction would be, but he had to _try_, right?

—

Halfway through his trip to the local market to buy a semi-automatic pistol (because this America wasn't armed and he just didn't feel comfortable going into a protest without a gun by his side), America remembered that he needed to check his inbox. Japan might have replied to his message earlier, and if he could head back to his own world _before_ starting a shitstorm in this new one, he'd certainly take the chance.

Some help was needed. He reached for his—the other America's—phone and dialed Canada's number.

"Hey, Canada! You holding up okay?"

The response from the other end was clipped. "Fine, I'm doing fine."

"That's good, that's good. Listen, I need a favor, alright? Can you find that machine—you know, Japan's machine that I told you about? I think I left it on the kitchen table—that's where I was last working on it."

There was some shuffling from Canada's end before he heard a response. "Alright, I found the...thing."

"Great! So can you, uh, turn it on and connect to the internet? You know how to do that, right?"

A grumble, and then, "Of course I _know_, I'm not dumb, America!" A pause. "Wait, are you saying connect to the internet on Japan's machine? Is there a specific reason why I would need to do it through his machine?"

"Oh, well, technically you shouldn't need to use his machine. Just use any computer with internet access and you should be good. Basically I just need you to open my inbox, check my email and let me know if you see anything from Japan."

Some tapping, followed by, "...Wait a second, America, I don't know the password to your email. And you know what, if whatever you claim about this travelling across parallel universes thing is true, you wouldn't know either, so I don't see how we could—"

"That might not be the case, you know! Considering that we're almost the same person, we might've just chosen the same passwords. I mean..." America trailed off, thinking about the chances of his own email password being the same as the other America's. His passwords had changed quite a ways over the years—in the early 80's he'd stuck adamantly to 'fuck!Russia!fuck' (Russia had somehow guessed his password and made a mockery of him at the following World Conference, the damn _bastard_).

Then, with the fall of the Soviet Union, he'd started a habit of changing his password every few months, mostly to mourn over whatever unfortunate travesty had befallen his people. His most recent password had been fueled by a combination of jealousy and fear— 'damn!China!nooo'.

Given that the America in this world was still a British colony, the likelihood he would complain about China was very, very small. Unless, of course—

"Hey Canada, can you give me a quick rundown of my relations with China?"

"Your relations with China?" Canada asked, incredulous. "Listen, I don't know how many times I need to tell you this, but you're with the British Empire, so whatever England decides, you go with. And England, he..." Canada trailed off, remembering how he'd overheard the last conversation Russia had with England on the matter.

_He could hear the clink of the teapot against the teacup in the background, could hear Russia's harsh breathing and hoarse voice: "Do you ever learn from history, Angliya?" Russia sounded calm, but it was clear that his words were meant to rile. Canada could only hope that this wouldn't break the fragile peace between the two countries._

_England ground his teacup onto the table. "I don't think you're the right nation to be telling me that. Who was the one who started yet another land war in Asia?"_

"_Don't bring up pointless interjections," Russia growled, "What I have done does not concern you in the least. You are better off focusing your energies on reviewing your foreign debts, don't you think? If I recall correctly, you are repeating history in a most unfortunate way, allowing your debt to accrue with China."_

"_Repeating history?" England asked, harsh laughter escaping from his lips. _

_(Something was off. Canada could tell, because he'd been observing the Empire for so long now, and it was obvious that something was wrong again, and England was refusing to tell them because it wasn't proper to complain about his personal life with his colonies, though it was perfectly alright to attack any one of them when he was angry.)_

"_It's all the better, Russia, for if I repeat history, I will come out as the victor. But if you repeat history, well, I don't recall the great Land of Rus evoking fear in the common man's heart a hundred years in the past."_

"_So this is how you wish to play?" Russia asked, "Your debt with China in the trillions, and you intend to repeat the Opium Wars to relieve it? Yes, you were certainly the victor, Angliya, but history has not looked favorably upon that victory." Russia leaned forward, a look of distaste on his face. "Let me put it in simple terms for you—if you foist illegal drugs into Chinese harbors, China will not take the matter lightly."_

_England snorted. "He did not take it lightly the last time either, but it's rather funny—nations can change quite dramatically when they're high, can they not?"_

"_I will not allow it," Russia snapped, with a cold glare to match, and Canada understood. Something was obviously going on with Russia and China, even if China had officially declared himself a founding member of the Non-Aligned Movement, declared himself to be neutral in their insane network of alliances._

"So what about England?" America prompted, impatient for an explanation.

"He's just in a lot of debt, and relations between him and China are...passably cordial, I guess, with a few flareups here and there."

America's eyes widened. England was in a lot of...debt? If the matter weren't quite so serious in his own universe, he'd have laughed out loud at the insanity of it all, because after all the times he'd listened to England rant about his rampant spending sprees, this one was in boatloads of debt, and to _China_, of all people. Then he realized something—because if both he _and_ England were in a lot of debt to China, and assuming that this England had a tendency to use his passwords as a personal diary of some sort, then—

"Hey Canada, I've got an idea. You know what England's email address is, right?"

"Um, yes?"

"So can you pull it up and try the password 'damn!China!nooo' with his account? That's three o's at the end, by the way, and China with a capital 'C'."

"What the hell are you—Alfred! For god's sake, I am _not_ helping you illegally access England's email—what are we going to do if he finds out?"

"Oh come on! He's not going to find out, 'cause we're not going to do anything once we're inside it. Think of this as a proof of concept—I just got an idea and now I want to test it out! Please, Matt, _pleeeaaase_?"

A long sigh at the other end, but then America heard typing noises and silently cheered on his own persuasiveness.

"Shit...that was..."

"What?"

Canada sounded breathless at the other end. "It worked, America, it worked! And I'm...I'm in his inbox right now. This—this is insane..."

—

Canada had wanted to speak to America more about the matter—like exactly _how_ he'd managed to guess England's password and what the hell was he supposed to do now that he was logged into the Empire's inbox, but America had insisted that he was in a hurry and had to leave _right now_. Canada could only guess it was that protest he'd accidentally let slip to his brother and hope that everything would turn out well. 'Well', of course, was defined as 'England not killing America for jumping onto the bandwagon'.

He glanced at England's unread emails, most of which were announcements from the [urgent-world-news] mailling list. The Empire clearly needed a filter for that—it was overpopulating his inbox. Then Canada realized something—something very, very bad—England's mailing system had logged him onto an instant messaging system, and a person (nation?) with the screenname 'capitalistpig' was currently messaging him:

capitalistpig (15:30:01): this victory of yours, rather empty, isn't it?  
capitalistpig (15:30:54): how is it angliya, to feel like you have no control over your colonies? unfortunate, i presume

'Angliya'? _Damn it_, Canada moaned into the computer screen, sinking his head into his arms. It just _had_ to be Russia.

If he typed something in reply, England would obviously find the logs and figure out _exactly_ what had transpired. If he didn't reply, Russia would surely ask England why he was online at such an hour and had refused to respond.

What the hell was he going to do?

He could pretend to be another nation—preferably one of Russia's allies, proclaim that he had hijacked England's account and confuse the hell out of Russia. Canada thought about pretending to be Lithuania—then decided against it, because there was the possibility that Lithuania was still out of commission from whatever Russia had done to him, and he felt a sudden wave of disgust at their earlier actions that had brought Lithuania to make such a sacrifice.

Or he could pretend to be one of Russia's other allies...and given that conversation he'd overheard, perhaps China?

But what would he say? Should he actually reveal that he wasn't England?

He tried to think from China's perspective—if China were able to gain access to the British Empire's email, what would he want to accomplish in a conversation with Russia? If he revealed his identity, it would be recorded, unless he went off the record and—that was it!

Canada switched the chat to 'off the record' and rapidly tapped out a greeting:

commiebastard (15:33:04): hello russia. just fyi, i'm not 'angliya'

England's screenname was most disconcerting—it seemed to exist solely for the purpose of insulting Russia. But then again, Russia had the same thing going on with his name, so Canada supposed it was only fair...

capitalistpig (15:33:48): unfortunate. who are you then?  
commiebastard (15:34:36): china  
capitalistpig (15:35:23): really now? kitaj...hmm how very interesting.  
capitalistpig (15:35:59): now then kitaj, since we are very good friends, perhaps you would like to share the contents of angliya's inbox with me?

Share the contents of—Canada groaned. What had he gotten himself into? England was going to kill him if he found out, and what the hell was he going to say in response to that? Even if England didn't find out that Canada had gained access to his inbox, he would surely be irritated that _China_ had managed to get in. What if Canada started a world war? Could he justify that—could he justify not telling just because he didn't want to face England's wrath?

(Such a coward, he told himself, because he was forever running away from reality.)

Although—there was something off about the way Russia had said 'how very interesting'. This was the problem with chatting—it was difficult to determine if Russia had meant it sarcastically or not, but 'how very interesting' sounded decidedly sarcastic. Which, of course, meant that Russia did not believe he was China. Perhaps he thought that England had finally decided to do it the Russian way and take up trolling? Which meant that the test was to see if '_Kitaj_' was willing to share the contents of England's email...

commiebastard (15:37:36): all information comes with a price  
capitalistpig (15:38:20): i am willing to pay  
capitalistpig (15:38:55): does getting hong kong back sound like a fair price to you?  
commiebastard (15:40:01): i don't see how you can do that, HK is not yours  
capitalistpig (15:40:34): ohh, i have my ways! surely you know me better than that, kitaj  
capitalistpig (15:40:57): have some faith in me, please  
commiebastard (15:41:39): i don't believe you russia

There was no response for a while, and Canada wondered if Russia had decided to end the conversation. But then—

capitalistpig (15:46:01): how very nice, because i don't believe you either  
capitalistpig (15:46:35): explain to me, kitaj, why would you use _china_ and not _zhong guo_? i thought you were not a fan of us westerners calling you 'china'?  
capitalistpig (15:47:05): you know, angliya, i think your trolling abilities are not quite up to par  
capitalistpig (15:47:14): unfortunate, no?

Canada's eyes widened—how had Russia figured him out? He knew it—he should've never pretended to be someone he didn't even know that well, because now he was really dead, because Russia believed that he was England, which meant that Russia would seek the Empire out in person and mock him for his piss-poor attempts at pretending to be someone else. Then England would be confused and demand that Russia provide citations for his lame attempts at mockery, and then both of them would know that something was horribly off, and—

He snapped the laptop lid shut, cursing himself for listening to America. This was the stupidest decision he'd made all day, and how was he going to face England when the Empire came back?

And all that advice he'd given to America before, what right did he have to give it when he couldn't even handle _this_? All those years they'd spent pretending to be someone they weren't, all those years for naught!

—

(Because they'd both forgotten how to smile, and Canada knew he was at fault. Because that night, those words of his—

"There, America, that's it. Make sure to do it whenever he looks at you, and you should be fine."

They'd practiced smiling in the mirror after, trying to figure out how to replicate a genuine one. They'd read books—the smile starts in the eyes, not the lips, they read, but their eyes were glassy and cold and how could they ignite a smile with eyes like that? They'd lost their ability to smile, lost it to the recesses of that mask they plastered onto their face and they wondered if they should feel sad.

But it was easier this way, they told themselves, clinging on to the bitter memories of better days, of childhood dreams. They weren't children anymore, and adolescents didn't _dream_.)

—

England had walked into the middle of the protest zone. Alone and unarmed, he raised his fist into the air, like everyone else.

Then he screamed, letting his throat run dry, because this was for a good cause, a righteous cause. Because his people would not stand for a corporate takeover of the nation, because they were not going to allow the wealthy few to run the affairs of the many.

He looked around, looked at the faces of his people, their passion, their anger, their devotion and their distress.

(Everything about them was beautiful.)

And in a fit of revolutionary fervor, he called out, "Corporate tyranny must go! Take back our country! Take back what is ours!"

The yelling continued, and England soon found himself clambering onto the shoulders of one of his citizens. He stood there, feeling tall, grand, larger than life, and he waved his sign of choice about madly, because for once he was _right_. And the man below him was shouting too, screaming himself hoarse, with beads of sweat lining his face, and England felt proud.

He was proud of himself, of his people, and he was free to show it.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt pride—no, he'd remembered feeling it that night when the world's first atomic bomb had ripped its way across America's land, the time he'd outdone France at a World Fair, but not like this, never like this. He'd never felt so free to express himself before, because he'd always been under orders to keep that stiff upper lip, because it wasn't right to show emotion, it wasn't right to be passionate.

(A sign of weakness, he was told, but he couldn't remember where he'd first heard it.)

Except this time he wasn't weak, he wasn't weak at all. He was stronger than he'd ever been, his empire reached every continent, every ocean shore, every coastline. And there was no longer a need to contain his emotions, because he wasn't playing a poker game anymore. He'd already _won_, and now he could celebrate, take back what was rightfully _his—_

A shot rang out, and England felt a pin prick his left arm, and a stream of blood run down his limb.

Someone had died, one of his citizens, and he could see the limp, lifeless body in his mind's eye—the woman's glassy eyes were still half-open in shock and her body had tumbled to the floor, getting trampled under the angry roar of the other protesters.

(He wiped at the blood on his wound, smearing the traitorous liquid about in circles around his skin.)

How had this happened? Who was responsible? They were in Russian land, but Russia would never bother restraining his people, not when they were protesting against the British government, not when they were protesting against British interests, so _who had shot her_?

His eyes scanned the crowd, and across the sea of faces, there was one he recognized.

_That blasted fool._

It was America, and he was screaming something in broken Russian to a guard (when had America learned to speak Russian at all?)—something about—

"What the hell was that? You shot us—you went and _shot_ us! What the hell is wrong with you? This is supposed to be a peaceful protest, a _peaceful_ protest, and you shoot at us!"

As America screamed, England realized that his colony had a matching wound on his left arm, the blood was dripping down his skin in the same manner, and the two of them had even smeared it in the same circular motion—the two of them—so this citizen identified as both—both of them.

(And England felt at a loss, because he was supposed to protect America from this. He was supposed to see the world, deal with the blows, but they weren't. They were supposed to be nicely cocooned in British North America, shielded from the death and destruction the world wreaked upon him.)

America continued unleashing his stream of profanities at the guard, streams and streams of words that even England did not know. (How did he know so much Russian? And England thought back to Russia—just how much contact did Alfred have with the nation? They were doing this behind his back again, weren't they? Exchanging culture when he'd _explicitly_ told the boy not to go anywhere near Russia—could Alfred have been _any more_ irresponsible?

England looked up just in time to see the guard, sufficiently angered, raise his baton and swing wildly at America's face, causing the nation to tumble back into the crowd.

And then America did the unthinkable. He pulled out the pistol from his pants pocket, the new one he'd purchased earlier that afternoon, pulled it out and directed it to the guard's face. There was a wild, wild look on America's face, for he too felt larger than life, because he wanted _revenge_, and he was powered with that fleeting feeling of invincibility, giddy with a sick sort of glee.

(Because this Russian bastard had attacked him, had landed a hit on his _face_, and he couldn't allow this to pass.)

His fingers snapped around the trigger, and he imagined himself pulling, once, twice, three times.

Bullets would rain into the man's body, and he would fall back back, body jerking with the impact. Then the two guards standing beside him would immediately trained their rifles on America, and they would probably aim for the kill. (And America wondered—would he feel satisfied? Happy, even, to see the demise of someone who'd attacked him for a few choice words? He—)

"America, for god's sake, what the _hell_ are you doing? Put that blasted thing _down_," England yelled, hoping his voice was audible over the roar of the crowd.

But America did not move, it was as though he hadn't heard England at all.

So England strong-armed his way through the crowd, shoved himself between angry protestors armed with signs, and made a nose-dive for America's location. He forced his colony to the floor with a well-aimed kick to the shins, and ripped the gun out of America's hands.

Then he pointed the gun at America, disgusted.

"Do you think this is a toy?" he asked, pressing the butt of the gun into America's neck.

There was something horribly blank about the look on his colony's face. It was as though the boy hadn't understood, hadn't comprehended that his actions earlier were the mark of an insane man. Because revenge wasn't conducted by shooting at random Russian guards, no, this was not how the British Empire obtained _vengeance_, and England was not about to have a wayward colony of his ruin _his_ reputation.

"Listen," England snarled, voice barely audible above the screams, "With this, you can senselessly murder a man, and if you're going to do that, I expect a bit more discretion. Here, all the world can see you, all the world will be witnesses to your crime." England crouched down, pushing the barrel of the gun against America's windpipe and spat out, "You will be a _disgrace_ to the art of war."

And America looked back, horrified, but for very different reasons.

Because he'd almost done it again, he'd almost broken that promise to Canada. And the world, they would point at him, whisper behind his back about how he was supporting some blasted dictator because he wanted money, how he'd abetted in the killing of innocents because he was thirsty for revenge. England had tried to defend him once too, saying that he was young, that he didn't know better, but America knew it wasn't true.

(Because they were born that way, because even when they were children, they were already capable of the worst kinds cruelty.)

"I'm...I'm sorry, damn it, I got carried overboard, I..."

England's fingers relaxed for a moment at America's apology, but he did not move the gun from America's neck. He couldn't take the risk, he told himself, not when a colony of his had almost taken arms against a foreign country, _against his will_, not when a colony of his was talking with Russia behind his back.

* * *

**notes:**

- Um, yeah, revolutions aren't always conducted so straightforwardly or with everyone in the right. It's kinda like _Animal Farm_ or the French Revolution, there will be shades of gray. Robespierre started out fine, didn't he? But don't worry, no one will turn out like Robespierre. ;)

- England as the British Empire is really, really strong. He's got a giant empire and nukes, so if he put his mind to it, he could certainly crush a rebellion. Just saying that it won't be _that_ easy. :P

- The debt thing is the reason why China's not as pissed at England (read: voted for him) as he could be over Hong Kong.

- The Non-Aligned Movement (in real life) is an organization whose member states were not identified with either the Eastern or Western blocs. It was started by leaders from Yugoslavia, Egypt, India, and Indonesia. In the AU, China is one of the founding members.

This chapter basically wrote itself. I don't know what happened, but I started writing and random ideas came to mind and I applied them. Also, I've done similar things with my passwords when I was younger, which probably explains the inspiration behind America's password-evolution. And yes, America has slight lapses into over-anger (don't we all); his lapses just have more consequences because he's a nation.

Reviews are awesome. :)


	9. empires and bathrooms : our world

**chapter 9**

He'd apologized, over and over, voice thick with guilt and eyes lit with concern. This was, at the end of the day, what he was best at, because he'd spent a lifetime practicing, a lifetime apologizing for mistakes that he hadn't made.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, hoping he sounded somewhat like the real Alfred, "This should've never happened — I — I wish I could've done more." He stood there awkwardly, trying to decide what to say next, something comforting, something blindly optimistic. "Don't — um — don't let your sister's actions get to you." America would say this, wouldn't he? If he was a superpower, wouldn't he feel the need to reassure his allies — and South Korea _was_ his ally, right?

"Thank you," South Korea managed through labored breathing, "I just need some time to...to figure things out."

America nodded, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

He felt like he should've been doing something more — because words just weren't enough. There was only so much he could say when he didn't know this South Korea, only so much he could express without his words turning into some fake, ghostwritten speech.

"I'm sorry," was too damn easy, and after all _that_, South Korea deserved better.

America felt an urge to reach out and pat South Korea on the back, maybe give the nation a hug, but was it appropriate behavior? Would the other him do something like that? As far as he'd remembered, reaching out to foreign countries was risky business, but he was obviously under no obligation to report to England _here_. It was just...it was out of his comfort zone.

When was the last time he'd touched someone that wasn't Canada? He wasn't antisocial, he told himself, he just didn't have the opportunity to _be_ social, because who would saunter over to North American waters when British ships were patrolling all the major ports? No nation would want to risk the Empire's anger just to visit a couple of dusty _colonies_.

He looked at South Korea intently, hoping his stare wasn't off-putting to the other nation.

Then, in a moment of sudden spontaneity, America lifted his arms and placed them on South Korea's shoulders. He almost flinched when they made contact — it was so — so _different_ for him to be the one initiating contact. South Korea didn't look uncomfortable though, so it was probably the right thing to do. And then, from behind Japan, he saw England giving him a nod of encouragement, and he felt immediately relieved. It was alright. Hell, everything was going to be alright. He would just have to stick to his instincts and play it by ear, and —

— everything would be fine.

—

When he finally retired to his room, America felt drained.

It wasn't that he didn't like South Korea's company, not at all, just that he was such a goddamn _nervous wreck_ it was impossibly taxing speaking to anyone, let alone a nation he barely knew.

America sat down on one of the beds, cupping his face in his hands. The blankets — soft and warm — were a perfect place for refuge, for the tired to slip their heads beneath and slide into deep slumber. He couldn't sleep though, because he couldn't help but think about the other residents of the room, the fact that they could walk in at any time, see him — vulnerable, exposed, half-dead to the world.

He rubbed at his temples, suddenly annoyed at himself. Why couldn't he learn to _trust_? After all, _this_ England had been nice to him, _this_ England had given him advice, had encouraged him, smiled with him, and yet he still couldn't let loose. Maybe it was the face, he thought, the face was too familiar, the voice, the way England wore his ties and sipped his tea and leaned when he spoke. Eerily similar.

Then he heard someone fumbling with the door, and a muffled query: "Hey, America?"

He shot up to a sitting position because — England — _England was back!_

"Hey," he said, keeping his eyes trained on the package in England's hands and away from England's face.

"I got us dinner," England announced, pulling two boxes out from the package and sinking into a nearby bed.

He saw America's hesitance in accepting the box and groaned — did his cooking _have_ to be abominable in every universe? "Don't worry," he reassured, "I didn't cook this — bought it off China some while ago." He opened his own box, tapped the contents and added, "Look, it's still warm."

America nodded faintly. He _was_ hungry, because missing both lunch _and_ dinner wasn't exactly something he'd been looking forward to. Frankly, even if England had been the one to cook, he probably would've just shut his eyes and wolfed down the contents without a second thought. He reached for the takeout box, peeled open the cardboard covers, and prepared to feast on the prepared food. But then he saw the packaged utensils — _chopsticks_ — and cringed.

He held them gingerly in his palm, then grabbed at the two vaguely separated chunks of wood, one in each hand, and tugged, hard. He scowled at the resulting mess he made — the sticks had been split unevenly, with the one in his left hand clearly missing a chunk at the top. How exactly was he supposed to use them _now_?

And to make it worse, England looked _amused_. "You don't use chopsticks often, I presume?"

America shook his head.

England chuckled, looking faintly nostalgic. "You — that is — the America I knew — he would sometimes complain about the way I held mine. Said my fingers weren't positioned properly, though I was pretty damn sure that was how Hong Kong held his." Hong Kong had later informed him that America was right, and England had in turn decided the two damn brats were just working together to humiliate him.

"Well, I can use them...sort of," America mumbled, face scrunched up in concentration. He'd finally managed to get the two sticks upright between his fingers, and he figured if most of his actions involved shoving rice into his mouth, he would be safe. There were, unfortunately, several large chunks of cauliflower that would pose to be a challenge, as well as a few pieces of shrimp...

He gulped, staring at the daunting task before him.

"Well," England said, amused grin still lighting his lips, "This is unexpected. I'm guessing you haven't had much East Asian immigration? When was the last time you used chopsticks?"

It was clearly not the best question to ask, because America looked deep in thought again, as though he were considering whether or not to tell the truth. How could such a simple question lead to so much personal turmoil?

"It was...some years ago. He, uh, England had this dinner arranged with China, where they were supposed to discuss business, and he wanted us to look presentable at the table. So we all had to learn how to use chopsticks for the occasion..."

"Must've been one high profile dinner," England quipped.

America nodded. "It was, but, uh, it didn't end well. Because Hong Kong — he — he made a mess of things. On purpose."

Hong Kong had made it clear that he wanted the dinner (and whatever negotiations relying upon it) to fail, as he'd spent the entire meal refusing to use his chopsticks right. The Empire had returned home frustrated and angry — because now China thought he'd been suppressing Hong Kong's culture, forcing him to eat the _British_ way, and that had _not_ been the impression he'd wanted to give.

America had no idea what the Empire had said to Hong Kong after their dinner fiasco — perhaps he had screamed, yelled, and increased taxes to an unbearable rate, perhaps he had forced Hong Kong to physically live in the Empire's house and taken away all the advantages of being far from the capital. Whatever the consequences, America could only hope Hong Kong found them worth his while.

He also felt distinctly uncomfortable jabbering on about the Empire's trials and trammels when the man was not there. Old habits died hard, after all. Besides, the few words he _wanted_ to say, the dirty truth that he and various other colonies were stuck paying for all of England's transgressions — those were the same words he didn't dare voice.

So when England looked ready to ask for more information, America quickly cut him off — "Um, can we — can we talk about something else?"

"Certainly," England agreed, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought him up at all."

"It's...it's fine," America managed, feeling a bit odd that his request had been granted so easily, and with an apology to boot. _It's too easy, _he thought, _everything here is too easy._

When they'd both warmed their stomachs with a few bites of food, England continued, "I'm guessing you're wondering about what happened to South Korea today?"

"Yeah," America said, grateful that England had broke the awkward silence, "I kind of got the gist from Japan, but — well, is there anything else I should be doing?"

"For now? Not much. I mean, yes, you're a close friend of South Korea's, so he's going to expect you to back him up in case of actual combat. But I suspect that North Korea's not stupid enough to risk actual war with all of us; she's just in the business of riling people up. So you most likely won't be doing more than having a couple of joint military drills with her brother."

"That's...that's good, I guess. I don't know if I'd be ready for anything more, I mean — war is — "

"About that," England muttered, "Well, let's just say that you're no stranger to _war_. This is something that you're just going to have to get used to, because you're in the middle of several at the moment."

"_Several_?" America gasped, earlier nervousness entirely gone, "What was I — _several_?"

England shook his head. "Well, you convinced yourself that it was right at the time, I suppose."

America sighed, studying his food carefully and chewing slowly on a chunk of rice. He stirred his chopsticks around the box, pushing the rice grains into several small mounds. Then he spoke, voice scratchy with concern — "I just...I don't exactly have good memories of war..."

England gave him a wry smile. "And who does, Alfred? War — and especially victory — just gets to our heads, messes with us, and then we start to think strength gives us right of way."

America opened his mouth to say something, then quickly clamped it shut, unsure.

"Just say it," England encouraged, smiling, "I don't bite." He resisted the urge to ruffle America's hair, as he suspected the nation would not take it so well. (Because that was a bit demeaning, wasn't it? Because the last time he'd done that, America had pushed him away and snapped that he "wasn't a _child_", and he didn't need England patronizing him. Of course, that had been not long after an argument...)

"Did you — um — did you once think that too?" America blurted out, "That strength gives you right of way — I mean, were you — did you also have — "

"Did I also have an empire?" England finished, suddenly looking distant and tired, "Indeed, I had one. Once upon a time, I had an empire, and I thought I was the messenger for civilization. I thought I could fix the countries I'd subjugated, rebuild them all in my image. They could all be proper English gentlemen and the world would be better off for my efforts."

America stared at England, watched as the nation seemed to lapse into a sort of unhappy nostalgia, the remnants of the past dancing around him. A thick scent of regret hung about the air, and when England spoke again, he sounded as if he was mostly talking to himself — "Or at least that's what I tell the world when they ask — sounds so nice, doesn't it? I'm going to _civilize_ you, because I'm a gift sent down to mankind by the deities up above..."

England let out a tired chuckle, and America turned his glance to the floor, lost in thought. The man standing before him had been an empire — perhaps even a cruel, terrifying one. And yet, here he was, echoing sentiments of regret, espousing ambivalence about his days of glory. How was America supposed to reconcile the reformed man before him with that image he'd developed in his mind about empires? Could the two really coexist in the same person? Could England — the Empire he knew — also one day regret and bemoan all that he'd done?

"America?" England asked at last, guessing at America's internal dialogue, "There's nothing to be surprised about, you know. I'm well aware of what I did — I was an empire, and I doubt I was nicer than the brand of imperialism you're dealing with now." He stabbed his chopsticks into the takeout box, looking determined. "But I won't make excuses about it, _I won't —_ even if it's not the truth you want to hear."

"I ...I know. England, I just — I don't know what to think anymore. I used to think that we could only choose from two categories — victim or victimizer, but there's more to that, isn't there? I mean, you had an empire, but you're not like - not like the England I know."

England opened his mouth to explain that yes, it was often like that, wasn't it — victim or victimizer, and where he'd once been the British Empire, he was now clambering to be the fifty-first state, a pathetic shade of what he once was. He said nothing though, because this America didn't need to hear his bitterness, this America was _innocent_.

Then he nearly laughed at himself for the mistake — because what about the tribes, the people whose land he'd taken? Innocence was no longer a part of the picture.

"Alfred, aren't there times when victims can turn into victimizers overnight? When the victim, feeling victimized, will turn around and prey on those weaker than him, continuing the cycle of vengeance?"

"I — " America looked down at his food, feeling ashamed. England had hit the mark, he realized, with he himself being the prime example. He'd seen the personifications of all the tribes, year in, year out, and his hands had never quite been cleaned of their blood. And even after he'd lost the revolution, things hadn't really changed, had they? He clutched his chopsticks tightly, shame welling up in his throat — he'd been a fool back then, and all these years and he'd never even properly _apologized_ —

"Hey," England interrupted his thoughts, smiling softly, "I don't mean to depress you. Perhaps we shouldn't discuss world affairs over meals."

America shook his head. "I — I don't mind. Really. It's just that — you're right and I — " He stopped, shook his head, and made a noise of disgust. "I never — never apologized."

England watched America, watched him as he ate the rest of his food, and wondered to himself if this boy would harbor the true winds of change. Because this Alfred was introspective, he was willing to see things from the other side, and the scars of imperialism was still fresh enough in his mind that he hadn't _forgotten_. This Alfred would approach the past decade's misdeeds from a fresh perspective, and perhaps the entire world would be better off for it.

—

Canada could not figure out why Russia had invited him to dinner to discuss _pigs_, of all things. The topic seemed far too innocuous to bother inviting someone over to dinner for, and he genuinely hoped Ivan wouldn't employ some underhanded tactic to strong-arm him on issues related to the Arctic. Couldn't they just not bring up the matter for another decade or so?

To qualm his worries about the direction of their conversation, he busied himself with Russia's cooking — the _varenyky_ was impossibly good, almost on par with Ukraine's cooking, and that borscht soup smeared with _smetana_ was going to leave him —

He'd been so busy stuffing his face that he'd almost missed Russia's next words.

"Your brother is an odd creature, isn't he?"

"Wh-what?" When had the conversation suddenly turned towards _America_? (Who, as far as he remembered, had been acting quite abnormally today...)

"I was speaking to _Amerika_ in the restroom yesterday. There is usually a very stupid smile on his face, but it was not there yesterday."

Canada's eyes widened. So he hadn't been the only one to notice, had he? Something was off about America — he'd been quiet for most of the meeting, hell, he hadn't even _wanted_ to present when it was his turn, and he'd gone out of his way to avoid arguments with England. Then there was his initial reaction to South Korea — America may have missed many a social cue, but Canada _knew_ he wasn't that clueless.

"Yes, he's — I don't know if something is going on. I mean — "

"Matvey, you are his neighbor," Russia said, as if that made all the difference in the world.

Canada sighed, because Russia was staring at him expectantly, and obviously he _had_ to expound on his answer a bit more. "America — he seemed fine when we last spoke to each other _before_ the meeting — I mean, he was fine on the plane. I think he made a few jokes about how France had given him good pointers with regards to England, and that was it. I expected him to actually engage England more today, but he seemed keen on avoiding the guy, so, well, I really don't know."

Russia nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then he stared at Canada, stared and stared, and — "Canada, you will help me speak with _Amerika_, yes?"

"Wait — what? Why would you need me to help — "

"It is because we are going to perform an experiment together — you will help me determine something that he _should_ know, and if he answers wrong, then we will know that he is an impostor. I believe that we both know him quite well — you being his neighbor and me being his once sworn enemy."

"I'm not telling you any secrets," Canada snapped.

"Oh, Matvey does not need to be worried," Russia stated, smiling, "You do not need to tell me what questions you choose to ask. I will, however, tell you what I intend to ask — I will ask him to annex me."

"_Annexation_? Are you _nuts_, Russia? This is — "

"Scientific experimentation is very good, yes?"

"Science? This isn't scientific _at all_. Even if the current America is an impostor, asking him a question like that will just lead to surprise, and that's perfectly _normal_."

"Oh," Russia said, smiling, "you misunderstand. Under normal circumstances, _Amerika_ will believe I am drunk and jokingly ask me if I have 'come to my senses at last'. He will do this with utmost confidence and a smug smile on his face. He may even attempt to get me to sign a statement solidifying our agreement. However, I cannot see this happening, which is why we are performing this experiment."

Canada cringed. And here he thought _America_ came up with the most hare-brained schemes — there was obviously a contender for _that_ trophy sitting across from him.

—

The two of them decided that the restroom was the ideal location — they could wait for their target to approach a stall, wait until he got out and corner him for questioning. It was mostly a matter of patience, because obviously America would have to use the bathroom at some point, and there was a limited amount of facilities (that is, exactly two) at their small Antarctican meeting house.

And so they each took over a restroom, sat in their respective stalls, and fiddled with their phones to alleviate boredom.

Eventually, an hour after the start of their waiting campaign, Canada heard the door to his bathroom creak open.

The footsteps didn't sound like America though — the confident stride was missing — this one was a slow, casual shuffle. But if some impostor had taken the role of Alfred — it was certainly possible that his gait would've changed too, right?

Canada watched intently through the seams in his stall, the nation was — blond — and — wait — there were _two_ nations.

England and _Japan_.

Then he heard England speak —

"Hey, wait, Japan, check the stalls. If anyone's in here, this could be bad."

_Shit_.

Instinct told Canada that he needed to hide better, and experience told him that people rarely looked at the ceiling. He placed one foot on the toilet paper roll, hoisted himself up and clambered over the edge of the stall. Then he sat on the ledge between the two stalls, with his back pressed against the wall. Canada watched with abated breath as Japan pushed open door after door — bit his lip as Japan approached his stall.

Japan gave the door a light shove, glossing over the nation perched atop the bathroom ledge entirely.

_Success!_

He could commend himself for his well-practiced invisibility later.

"Not to worry," he heard Japan conclude, "The stalls do not seem to be occupied."

"Alright then, let's get down to business. What did you figure out?" England asked, voice tense.

Canada began to doubt the validity of his success. Sitting on the ledge _hurt_, damn it, and he highly doubted whatever bathroom conversation they were going to make was actually worth overhearing — perhaps England was going to ask Japan about his relationship troubles? France and Germany had probably gotten sick of dealing with him, and he'd found himself a new counselor who was too polite to refuse —

"I sent him an email earlier today, but he has not responded yet. I do not know what is going on, but if he is starting a revolution, that could be why. However — "

"He hasn't responded? Damn it, think of the worst case scenario — what if this other me did something? What if — "

"England, please calm down. I am sure Alfred can take care of himself. The part I am worried about is — well, we cannot be fully sure the message even reached him."

Canada sat up, suddenly alert. America was instigating _another_ revolution? And what in the world did England mean by 'this other me'? England and Japan made it sound like America hadn't been here all day, and that they'd been trying to contact him, but to no avail.

Was this — damn it, was this _why_? Then who was the impostor they'd chosen to replace him?

"What the bloody hell do you mean by that?" England spat out, "I thought _you_ made this damn machine — how could you not know if your messages are reaching the target? Damn it, Japan, I thought you had this figured out!"

Japan looked away from England's glare. "I am very sorry. There was something I'd overlooked. Let me — let me explain from the very beginning. Think of the teleportation machine as a black box—something goes in one end and comes out the other in a parallel universe."

England sighed. "And how is this supposed to help?"

"When America sends messages between universes, he will first create a "send email" request, which can be done without access to any network. Then, he will push the request through my machine, which will move the request from his universe to ours. Any wireless router in our world can pick up the request and execute it, successfully sending the email. That is how he was able to send me a message. However — "

"You don't have the machine in our universe, is that the problem?"

"That is not the problem — yes, most of the machine did get teleported with America, but I managed to rebuild it from my notes."

"Then...?"

"Well, machines are...very rigid things. Every command you send to it needs to be written in the right way. So if I tell a machine 'send message to japan; message is: test' and it works, then the machine will not understand my message if I change the semi-colon after 'japan' to a period. Alfred has lived in our world, so he knows what a request to a wireless router should look like. However, I have not lived in their world, and I have no idea what their requests are supposed to look like. It is very likely I am wrong, and my email was never sent at all."

So _this_ was why America had been so _different_ — Canada thought with increasing anger — and these hosers had never thought to _inform_ him? Goddamn, when he got out of here, he would give them a piece of his mind —

"Great," England muttered, "So we can only hope that America will somehow come to his senses and tell us how message requests are formatted in his world?"

— they would never forget him again, they would acknowledge that if something insane had happened to America, he should've been the first one they talked to —

"Well, not quite. I am currently generating all logical ways of formatting the requests — it will take some time, but if we are lucky, one of them will work."

— oh, who was he kidding? Bastards, the lot of them.

—

After England and Japan finished their top-secret bathroom discussion and began to make their departure, Canada lowered himself down from the ledge, wondering how best to approach them on the matter. Direct confrontation was probably easiest, so he would just have to —

He slammed the door open, feeling a slight satisfaction at the horrified looks on both nation's faces.

"C-Canada? Were you — ahh — were you here the entire time?" England asked, looking nervous.

"Yes," Canada informed him icily.

"Right, well, we were — I'm guessing you, um, heard everything?"

"Oh, you mean about how Alfred was _teleported to a different world_? How the current America you've got sitting with you is an _impostor_? Then yes, I guess I heard everything." The sarcastic, biting anger in his voice made England take a step back. He really couldn't remember the last time Canada had spoken like that to him — yes, he could see that Canada would be peeved by their refusal to tell him the truth, but in truth, he'd actually advocated_ for_ telling Canada. It was Japan who'd been opposed due to undue paranoia...

"Look, Canada, please don't be mad — we didn't mean to exclude you. We were actually going to tell you, once the time became right. It's just that right now — right now is not an appropriate — "

"And when _exactly_ would it have been appropriate?"

Japan looked at the floor, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks, and said, "We're very sorry, Canada."

Canada sighed, realizing that he couldn't really stay mad at them for long. And besides, Japan was simply too good at apologizing — how exactly was he supposed to keep up his frown when Japan looked three steps away from creating an embarrassing spectacle to ask for forgiveness?

Besides, he had a much bigger problem on his hands — what in the world was he going to tell Russia? If he told the truth, well — this was clearly not something the entire world should know, and even if relations between Russia and America had been improving after the collapse of the Soviet Union, could he trust Ivan to keep a secret, especially if said secret could be used to his advantage? On the other hand, if he lied and Russia found out, there would be a diplomatic _crisis_ on his hands...

He was in very, very deep shit.

—

America was terribly afraid of being alone. Because when he was alone, his thoughts would wander, and he would think of the bygone years —

(_"War is never pretty, is it, Alfred? Not that you've fought a real war, against a real enemy, without my help."_

_He wants to tell England that it's not true, because what about all those rebellions they've fought over the years? But of course the Empire would never count _those_, just like he'd readily swept every one of India's uprisings under the rug, buried it beneath layers of flowery text and fancy language._

_Instead, he watches, silent, as England drags the cloth across his midsection, pulls it tight against the wound. He's tired of fighting for England — because now China hates his guts, can't look at his face without screaming about 'opium pushers' and 'Anglo-American bastards' — and he feels sick, disgusted with himself.)_

"_Amerika_! How unexpected, to see you here."

America froze, recognizing the voice. Damn — did it _have_ to be Russia? Of all the nations that he could've come across, it had to be _Ivan_.

Even if this Russia wasn't like the one from his world — England and Japan had explained that he wasn't communist (any more) and that the other America had never been _scared_ of Russia he'd had too much practice being afraid of the world, and England's (other England) stories of Russia hadn't helped. ("He's a right bastard, Ivan. I saw him threatening Lithuania with a knife the other day — right bastard, like I said.")

"Um...hi, Russia," he managed, looking at mirror behind the nation.

"So," Russia said, trying to look casual, "You know about this financial crisis that has hit the world recently, yes?"

"Yeah, I've, uh, heard a lot about it. It kinda sucks, doesn't it?"

Russia gave America a curious look. He'd _heard_ about it? It was quite odd that America would claim having heard about it when he'd clearly _experienced_ it himself. Still, no matter, he had to move on with the plan — "It does indeed 'suck', as you put it. I have been having so many problems; it is quite a trying time. Thus, I was wondering if I could request a little favor out of you."

Russia smiled, and America looked tense. "I want you to annex me."

America backed away, feeling alarmed. Annex _Russia_? What was the catch here? Because Russia may not have been communist anymore, but England hadn't said he was friendly with Russia either. "Tolerably cordial" was how England had put it, and tolerably cordial did not translate to _willing annexation_. Was Russia simply insane or was there something missing in this equation?

"Um, Russia, I don't — I don't think this is a good idea..."

"And why not? I think it is a perfectly fine idea. Think about it, _Amerika_ — you will be able to double the output of your economy _and_ get free access to all the oil you need. I do not understand how you can say 'no'."

America fidgeted, feeling anxious. So apparently this Russia had a lot of oil too — and if he annexed Ru — wait, what was he _thinking_? This was _insane_. Why would Russia, the largest nation in the world, want to be annexed? Even if his economy was failing, it was hardly a good reason to ask for annexation! (After all, he thought, the Empire had never asked China to annex him when things got bad, and things had gotten incrementally worse over the years...)

"I...I still don't think so, Russia. What — what would you gain from this?"

Russia raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Me? Oh, I get to take a break from having to deal with economic woes. It will be nice, having someone to protect me for once."

"You're — you're not serious, are you?"

Russia smiled, almost serene.

Then, without warning, he grabbed America's collar and slammed him into the nearest sink. "I am curious," he said, leering, "How _did_ you dispose of _Amerika_, impostor?"

—

**notes:**

I apologize for not updating sooner. :( There's lots of reasons, but I'm not going to abandon this, I swear. It's the longest story I've ever written, and I do want to make sure I can see one project out.

_- varenyky_ - a type of Russian dumpling  
_- smetana_ - a heavy sour cream  
_- _"51st State" - to quote Wikipedia, "The United Kingdom has sometimes been called the 51st state due to the close and 'special' relationship between the two countries."  
_- _The British Empire used various colonized groups to fight their wars for them (i.e., the British Indian troops fought against China during the Opium Wars)  
_- _Russia's question is not quite that literal

Also, it'll be hard to incorporate current events from here on out because:

(1) March had way too many events that I'm not sure I actually want to use (the tone of this fic doesn't match)  
(2) It doesn't fit into the timeline (how can that many events happen in a few days?)

I actually always thought that remaining a British colony would not necessarily have been terrifying (Britain treated colonies like Canada and Australia pretty well, right?). The key reason behind colony!America's unhappiness is that the UK never properly transferred to being a democracy. He went the other way instead. (which also explains HK's odd behavior at that dinner...more on that later.)

Thanks for keeping up with me for this long! Reviews are very appreciated.


	10. faded flags : alternate universe

**chapter 10: of democracy and everything else**

—

The faded flag of the United Kingdom clung desperately onto the mantle, its limp and lifeless nature in sharp contrast with the harsh exchange of words in the doorway.

Canada sat in the balcony, hands clasped and head bowed, waiting for the inevitable. His eyes were half-lidded, a far cry from being focused, because the future was obvious. For in the intricate dance of colonizer and colony, there was only one fate that would dare unfold.

_—_

England was shouting.

His cheeks were a dirty red, courtesy of the snowstorm outside and made no better by the pulsating anger in his head. His eyes, however, betrayed the vestiges of fear, of paranoia, like a parasite had gnawed away his sanity.

"If you have a problem with me," England snapped, "you can say it to my face. You want to protest? You want to waste hundreds of millions of pounds watching a few _useless_, entitled bastards protest against _me_ in a foreign country? Is that how it works, Alfred? _Is it_?"

Canada watched as America shrank back, confused, unsure.

The gun in England's hands suddenly tipped up, and the Empire pressed it casually under America's chin.

"Your knowledge of Russian is rather uncanny," England continued, and Canada could tell from the saccharine quality of his voice that he was barely suppressing his rage. Then he heard a door - the rear door - slam and England growl, "Perhaps you would care to tell me more? How much have you learned in the last few months on Russian culture, Russian architecture, the state of Russian affairs? "

"Nothing," America spat, "I get that I messed up today - it was wrong, wrong of me to wave a gun about in a crowded protest and contemplate shooting people. I swear I won't do something that stupid again. But you can't possibly be accusing me of collaborating with that communist bastard. That's just not _possible_ - it's not in my nature."

"I don't need to accuse you of anything. You know perfectly well what you've been doing, America."

"If I were working with _Russia_, why the hell would I shoot at his guards?"

"Russia," England laughed, "doesn't give a damn about sacrificing a few for 'the greater good'. It's in _his_ nature. Clearly having you as his little spy is by far worth a few measly guards. You - have you no sense of honor? After all that I did to help you, to change your economy to a functional one, to protect you from enemies far and wide, this is what I get in repayment?"

"I didn't betray you, I _didn't_ - "

America suddenly cut himself off, as though he knew it was a losing a battle.

"Look," he began again, voice softer and bit resigned, "I'm not going to say anything to convince you, am I? I mean, in your mind, I'm already this disobedient little shit who can't follow orders and who already betrayed you. You can accuse me of telling Russia all your secrets, fine, whatever. It doesn't change the fact that I didn't tell him a thing - and if I told the truth, the whole truth and nothing _but_ the truth, you would call me insane. Whatever you do to spies, I don't know, but - "

"We execute them," England supplied helpfully, "but in your case, I suppose you could humor me with this 'nothing-but-the-truth' explanation of yours. If it's not quite up to par - well." England pressed the gun closer to America's skull, tightening his grip on the weapon. Above them, Canada stood up, terrified. If England shot America point-blank, what would happen to his brother? He tried to imagine the sharp metal piercing the side of his brother's face, burying itself through his skull. He'd never seen nations shot in the head before - presumably they didn't _die_ if their countries were still intact, but what would he know?

And worse, the 'truth' was nothing short of _idiotic_. What fool, besides himself, would believe in multiple universes _and_ travelling between them, of all things?

"Alright," he heard Alfred say, "I hope you believe me, but I guess I don't blame you if you don't. I, uh, you want to defeat Russia, right? Communism's a bitch and all that. And you can't defeat the enemy until you know him, right? So I figure if you speak his language, if you break his codes, it'll get you somewhere. And you probably know plenty of Russian, but I didn't know any, so I thought it'd be useful to learn. Then if we've got many eyes on the same data, it's - well, it's always better than one, right?"

There was another tense silence, with England staring at America, looking for signs of deceit.

"Your explanation is incomplete," he said at last, "Why were you in the Soviet Union's general meeting area? Why did you believe we were in Antarctica and not Moscow? You've been utterly inconsistent today - don't you _dare_ think that a single statement about your desire to learn Russian will explain things away."

America sighed.

"This is the part where you really won't believe me. I got this weird email this morning. It sounded urgent - hell, it claimed to be from you, but now I'm starting to suspect you never sent it. The email said something about how our meeting was moving to Antarctica, but I didn't need to worry 'cause you'd already rearranged the plane tickets and everything, and all I had to do was show up for that same flight at the same time. There was also this map of the meeting place attached - it was - I guess the map was misleading. _And_, on top of all that, I can't access my email anymore. I'm assuming someone hacked into our email servers..."

Canada realized that his hands were beginning to feel numb from gripping the railing the way he'd been doing, but this _lie_ of Alfred's was just - ludicrous - _mad_.

Because the bit about not being able to access his email was true. The bit about someone having 'hacked into their email system' was _also_ true. It was just that, if the Empire found out exactly _who_ had hacked into their system, he would probably exile Canada to some damp, dark prison on one of the hundreds of small islands he'd laid claim to. But maybe, if they played their cards properly, they could convince England that someone else had hacked into the official email servers of the British Empire, that the security compromise was affecting _everyone's _emails.

That would give Alfred enough time to get into his actual email and produce a fake message from the Empire to corroborate his brother's little lie...

He realized belatedly that England was speaking again, with a sickly-sweet smile to accompany the speech: "So I suppose this email of mine also proclaimed that you were no longer my colony, correct? That you should prepare a speech for today, because it would be your proper inauguration speech as a 'nation', yes?"

He lowered the gun slightly so that it was directed at America's chest and then snapped, "Turn around."

"Wha-but, I - "

Canada could see the confusion on America's face as he sputtered out a response. Was America trying to decide whether or not to fight England with all that he had? That was a terrible idea, because England would only be more suspicious and even if _this_ America wasn't afraid, battles were never won on bravery alone. The Empire had too much at his disposal, more than enough to take care of a single rebellious colony.

"Turn around!" England snarled again, and Canada found himself wishing desperately that America would obey.

(Though there was that small part of him that wondered if this was just his default response because _he_ was afraid, because he didn't dare be brave. And he'd done that time and again, hadn't he? Because this was hardly the first time he'd tried to reign his brother in, tried to drive the concept of 'independence' from both their minds...

And it was always later - they would gain their independence _later_, they would be free of England _later_, even if _later_ was just a euphemism for _never_.)

To Canada's relief, America did turn.

_—_

Dinner was a somber affair.

His colonies seemed largely aware of what had transpired with America and remained quiet, as though afraid of intruding on the uneasy silence.

When they were done eating, each of them excused themselves and left, and the numbers at the table dwindled down one by one. Eventually, Canada was the only one remaining, and he had a left a sizable portion of his meal uneaten. England watched as he sliced a portion of the beef, dipped it in the gravy, slathered the whole thing in a lump of mashed potatoes and - it was then that Canada came to the sudden realization that there were only two of them at the table. He quickly put his fork down, wiped his mouth and said, "I … sorry, I don't have much of an appetite today. I'll do the dishes as soon as I'm done, you can go, I mean - you don't have to ..."

_Stare at him eat._

"Are you trying to excuse me from my own table?" England asked, almost amused.

"No! Just that - you don't have to wait for me..."

"What if I _want_ to wait?" England asked, leaning back in his seat.

Canada stared back blankly, but England could see the apprehension weaved into the boy's face. Sometimes it was good to be feared, yes, but this level of fear was surely unwarranted? It wasn't as if he was going to do anything terrible at the dinner table - he just wanted to _talk_. Sure, a few hours ago, he'd wanted to question Canada about the whole 'lapdog' business, maybe even give him a warning worth remembering, but he'd decided to put that on hold until he figured out what was _wrong_ with America. Because it was entirely possible that America had made up that accusation to deflect from his own wrongdoings, and looking at the anxiety on Canada's face - well, there was no point exacerbating that unless the accusation was actually true. Instead, it would be more to his advantage to offer Canada an opportunity, one that he could hopefully use to win the boy to his side...

"Matthew," he began, "We need to talk about tomorrow."

Canada looked a bit alarmed and suddenly began shoveling roast beef and mashed potatoes into his mouth at an unprecedented rate. With his mouth full, he lifted his head and gave England a quick nod. England just raised his eyebrows - why was Canada _this_ jumpy?

"There's no need to hurry," he continued, mildly entertained, "In fact, I'll do the dishes tonight. I just have a quick proposal about tomorrow. I'll be in a meeting with the Soviet Union for most of the day, because Switzerland - the meddling fool - has _insisted_ that we resolve our differences in Arctic sovereignty before we attend the general congregation. This is a matter that you take great interest in, am I correct?"

Canada looked back at him, surprised about the topic he'd brought up. "Uh, yes. Some of my explorers have complained about - about Russian flag-planting."

"Tomorrow would be a good time to do something about that," England continued, "And since you've spent more time in the Arctic than I have, I think it would be best if you accompanied me. We would have a better chance of negotiating successfully with Russia."

Despite the dazed look on his face, Canada quickly nodded his assent. How _could_ he pass up an opportunity like this one anyway?

England nodded. He collected a few nearby plates and spoke again, "There's something else I ought to warn you about..." He placed the dishes in the sink and continued, "It's your brother. He does not seem to be of sound mind - almost murdered a man today. He said he was caught up in a fit of uncontrollable rage, and his speech was like that of a madman. If I were you, I would stay well out of his way."

Canada looked frozen for a moment - there was (again) too much food in his mouth that he was desperately trying to swallow in time to answer England. "Yeah," he managed to grunt out after a moment, "Yeah, sure. I'll do that."

"Good," England said, smiling.

_Sinker._

_—_

There was something off about his brother? Well, _that_ was the understatement of the year. And now that he'd made a stupid promise to not speak to Alfred, he would have to be especially careful. He heard the familiar sounds of shower curtains sliding about and bathroom doors creaking open and shut. It was almost time - almost. Once he was sure the Empire was in bed, Canada headed for the basement. Alfred was sure to be in there, handcuffed and left alone in some dirty cell - who knew what mysteries their borrowed house held?

It was only during his descent into the basement when he realized that he should've brought along a lamp.

"Al?" he called out into the darkness, a touch unsure.

"Uh, Matt? That you?"

"Yeah," he said enthusiastically, "it's me. I saw you guys earlier, and I figured - well, I'm sorry you had to deal with _that_ - the Empire is freaking _insane_."

"Hah," America managed to choke out, "A fact that we're both very familiar with by now."

"Right," Canada agreed. "You know, if you need anything, just let me - "

"It's better if you leave me be," America cut him off, "I mean, I've kind of decided that I'll just go along with this - this whole business of being his colony. It feels a bit weird, after all these years, but I can adapt. And it's safer this way, because if I told him the truth, he would just think I'm an impostor, and _technically_, he'd be right."

"I suppose so," Canada mumbled, sounding unsure. Then - "So when _did_ you start learning Russian?"

America grinned faintly in the darkness. "It was a long, long time ago. I really hated Russia's guts then, you know? Especially after he managed to pay off a number of Americans with high-level security clearances to turn into Russian spies - that really pissed me off. And he knew so much English and could get info on me anytime, while I knew no Russian whatsoever, outside of the whole 'da' and 'privyet' stuff you hear in movies."

Canada nodded. "That's...interesting. So you learned Russian fluently?"

"Well, I wouldn't say _fluently_, but good enough to semi-communicate. I probably learned more bad words than good ones." America chuckled lightly at the memory, "So what happened with the machine?"

"Oh, that? It's...it's in my room. I doubt England would have any desire to go in there. He _was_ being rather disturbing at the dinner table though - kept staring at me."

America snorted. "Forget him. I bet he just wants to intimidate you or something. Maybe he gets some sick sense of self-satisfaction by putting other people down, 'cause he's too stupid to feel good about himself without hurting other people in the process. Or maybe," America said, looking thoughtful, "Maybe that's what happens when you've got an _empire_."

"Maybe," Canada conceded, "So was England like that in your memories?"

America grinned. "For a while, sure, but Golden Ages don't last forever, you know."

Canada smiled at the thought of the British Empire collapsing. It was a dirty thought, really, but he couldn't help but imagine England - England fading against the blinding sun, England shrinking back to his rightful place on that small, rocky island. The muted flag on the mantle could finally be ripped apart with impunity...

America must've caught on to his thoughts, because he said, "Don't think like that, Mattie. It's not England, it's his _empire_. Once any nation gets that kind of power, it all goes downhill from there. I remember you - you really hated me once. You said I was a jerk, hell, _everyone _said I was a jerk. I attacked countries whenever I wanted, I propped up dictators because they supported me. I did it 'cause I believed I was right and Russia was wrong and that the ends always justified the means."

Canada tried to look at America in the darkness, tried to see his brother's face and find that shred of regret. Would England be able to look back at this and - _regret_?

"So you..." he said, voice barely a whisper, "You were an empire, in your own right."

America shook his head. "That's not what - I'd rather not call myself that. Empires are a thing of the past, and I'm not - I'm not - "

_I don't want to be an empire._ But what was the purpose in repeating that? To deny reality? To save face? The world was weaved by contradictory opinions - he was imperialistic, but not an empire, he had military bases and unincorporated territories, but not colonies. He was late to the imperialism game, and yet the amount of proposed 51st states were staggering.

His stomach chose a terrible time to growl.

"Sorry," Canada gasped, "I was freaking out at dinner today, so I forgot, but I should've brought you food. Wait, maybe I can get some now, if you want leftover bread or mashed potatoes. There's still quite a bit left."

"Yeah!" America said enthusiastically, glad to put depressing speech behind them, "Mashed potatoes and gravy! Man, I'm _starving_."

Canada nodded. "I'll be back in a moment, Al, just - "

They both froze, because there were footsteps - and they were coming down towards the basement.

"No," Canada breathed, "Someone is - crap, it's probably _Arthur_."

He had to find a good hiding spot, because if England was coming down, he had probably brought a flashlight, which meant he would most certainly see Canada. And yet if he couldn't see anything, how was he supposed to find a good place to hide? Perhaps behind the basement door?

He didn't have time to think, because someone had shined a blinding flash of light in his face.

"Interesting," a voice said, "I didn't expect there to be a gathering."

Canada shielded his eyes from the sudden light and let out a sigh of relief . It wasn't England, right? It certainly didn't sound like him - the voice still had a child-like undertone, not that throaty accent of the Empire's. He blinked a few times, clearing the tears out of his eyes, and saw -

Hong Kong.

Well, that was unexpected.

"America," Hong Kong said, fumbling with the lock on the cell door, "England told me to inform you that he may have been a bit … irrational earlier. He says to be careful, because someone has compromised our email system and none of the data in our inboxes can be trusted." Then he turned to look at the both of them and said, "He also said he would not rest until he found exactly _who _chatted in his name."

Canada gulped.

—

The thing about having allies is that they're supposed to tell you if you do something idiotic. Which, of course, was exactly what America was doing for Canada.

"You can't confess, Matt! That makes no sense whatsoever and it sure as hell won't win England over. Think about it - if you confess, he's going to accuse you of sending that email to me, the one where you claim the meeting's in Antarctica and I'm not a British colony and stuff. England is going to murder you over that last bit alone!"

"Then what's the alternative? Wait for him to figure out who did it and then murder me anyway? Maybe he'll even hack apart my corpse for _hiding_ from him - "

"I meant figurative murder, Mattie."

"...Y-yeah, I know," Canada mumbled, cradling his face in his hands. "I'm really losing it..."

America patted Canada on the back and grinned, "Don't worry, it'll be alright. We're going to come out of this one unscathed, 'cause I've got this brilliant idea. We should get in touch with your contacts in the Soviet Union - who do you have again? The Baltics? Ukraine? We can let them know that the revolution starts _now_."

"_What_?"

America snorted. "Oh come on, how can you not realize? England will be too distracted to pursue the case of the email hacker if he has to fight us. And by the time he figures it out, we'll be free from him altogether. It'll be _awesome_!"

Canada attempted to pry America's limbs away from his shoulders and gave up when he realized the impossibility of that task. "Alfred," he cut in instead, "So your proposed plan for solving my predicament is to get me into an even _bigger_ predicament?"

—

It's said that a decent breakfast consists of democracy (in quotes), scrambled eggs, and an economic crisis of great magnitude. That was England's early morning meal, in a small diner mostly catering to international businessmen. Normally, he'd eat at home, presumably save a few pounds, but yesterday night had confirmed his instincts about getting out of the house. Besides, he had chosen this particular establishment with care - it gave him a decent vantage point over Russia's house, so if any _unsavory_ characters were to enter (Alfred, for one), he would know straight away.

Meanwhile, of course, he had a crisis to tend to. Or rather, multiple _crises_.

There was the issue with America - despite the fact that the email incident had turned out to be _true_, there was still something off about Alfred that he couldn't place. The boy was wilder, easily angered and controlled by the tides of his emotions. In some ways it was welcome, because England was tired of the empty stares and fake smiles, but it made his task as an empire that much more difficult. Because now, on top of dealing with the harpy that was Russia, he had _domestic unrest_ to contend with as well.

And speak of the devil, there was China, standing casually in front of him. Perhaps England should never have chosen a restaurant that catered to the international business community...

"Two drinks, please," China said, turning to the man at the counter, "_Oolongcha_ for me, and - "

"I'll have bubble milk tea," England cut in, putting on a smile, "Make it Earl Grey, warm, with green grass jelly and large tapioca pearls."

China looked back at him quizzically.

"What?" England asked, "I do enjoy what the kids have nowadays - and _this_ is their latest fad. Those who live forever in the past, well, the present does not look kindly upon them."

China said nothing. Instead, when his plain tea came, he cradled his cup in silence, temperated with occasional sips. England busied himself with the crease on his shirt sleeve, because he knew the real reason behind that look. China was disappointed - annoyed, perhaps a touch angry, because as indebted as he was, he'd ordered a terribly fancy drink on China's dime.

"England," China said, and England thought of a hundred ways to diffuse the debt situation, "I saw you."

So it wasn't the debt. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"I saw you earlier," China repeated, "You were with a colony of yours - America, was it? And you had a gun at his head."

The Empire took another sip of his grass-jelly infused tea. "What I do with my colonies is none of your business."

"Except when it is. Do I need to remind you that Hong Kong is in your care, and that if anything happens to him - if you point a gun at _his_ head - "

"I have never pointed a gun at his head," England answered swiftly, "Hong Kong has never done anything to merit such treatment."

"And what if he did do something to merit such treatment? What if he did something terrible - would you have - _shot him_?"

England pressed his fingers tightly against the glass cup in his hands, trying to keep his voice calm. What right did China have to talk to him about Hong Kong? It wasn't like China had truly given a damn about the city when he gave the kid away - what was with the belated mother-henning _now_?

"For heaven's sake, you are being _absurd_ - no, I would not have shot him. Did you see me shoot America? I do not shoot those under my care at random. The weapons I carry on me are for self defense and for defending the world against a particularly invasive brand of communism." At this, he took a large gulp of his drink and continued, "America was being a danger to everyone living under my roof, and I have every right to maintain peace in my own house."

China just stared at him, lips pressed into a thin line. Then he pulled out his wallet, reached in for a thin roll of cash, and dumped it unceremoniously across the table.

"When Hong Kong comes back," he snapped, "he'd better be in pristine condition."

England said nothing in return. Instead, he picked up the stash of bills and held them up to the sky, checking to make sure they were genuine. By the time he'd set the bills down, China was already halfway out the door.

"Hong Kong," he said in a low voice, looking pointedly at China's back, "You miss him, don't you?"

China suddenly jerked back, frozen, and England loosened his grip on the wad of cash. "He's grown into a fine lad, you know," he said, voice a soft murmur, "Never shirks his duties, always composed in the face of trouble … " He smiled faintly. "I think you'd be proud of him."

England watched as China set his wallet on the table, dropped it with a low thud. He bit down on his smile, because he couldn't let on that he _knew_. China hadn't cared in the early days, but as the years wore on, as Hong Kong grew from a small town into a major commercial center, he'd been angry that he'd missed out, distraught that one of his liked _England_ more. And now he would want to reconnect with Hong Kong, to redeem his title of 'parent' at any cost.

"How interested are you in taking him back now, a good seventy-nine years early?"

Then he smiled and whispered, "20 trillion, let's shake on it."

—

**notes:**

Thanks for all the reviews, everyone! I was rather floored that many people wanted to see this updated. And I apologize for my lack of updates for...the longest time ever. :( School just about mauled me last semester and I'm quite glad that's over.

- There were a few issues with flag-planting in the Arctic that Canada brought up to Russia in '07. The U.S. was not particularly enthused with Russia's actions either...  
- Russia did manage to pay off a number of Americans to become Russian spies during the Cold War. That's not to say that Russian spies didn't also defect to the U.S...  
- That 20 trillion number was found by multiplying Hong Kong's nominal GDP (225 billion in 2010) by 79, the number of years England was giving him up early. That yields ~18 trillion (17 775 000 000 000), but I figured England would round up for the sake of bargaining. Keep in mind that this is enough to pay off the current US debt and then some...


End file.
